


Roomies

by CamilleCM



Category: Friends (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23463124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleCM/pseuds/CamilleCM
Summary: "Does she hate me? Why would she? I am the one who should hate her!" - Chandler is about to move into apartment 19, across the hall from the girl who severed his toe. But things don't go according to plan (when do they?). Enemies-to-Roommates-to-Friends-to-Something ...
Relationships: Chandler Bing/Monica Geller
Comments: 60
Kudos: 94





	1. Chandler

**Author's Note:**

> The result of +20 days of quarantine and Mondler as a coping mechanism. Enjoy and stay safe.

"Apartment 19, 90 Bedford Street, New York."

I look down at the piece of paper in my hand and read again the classified ad from the Village Voice that Ross gave me.

This is the right address. I knock lightly.

No answer.

"Hello, is anyone here?" I ask.

No answer.

Another knock and still no answer.

I drop my bag alongside the other few boxes I brought and left in the hallway. This isn't a good start, and as the minutes pass by, I start to get nervous.

Ross was sure, and Ross isn't the kind to pull cruel pranks on me. He said he found an ad and he knew the place, and I could get it by just going over there. Though it seemed too good to be true, everything looked fair and square when I called, and we were both excited. It wasn't too far from his and Carol's place, and he could spend plenty of time over since his sister also lived in the building.

That's when it came back to me: Yes! His sister! My lord and savior.

I turn around and face the door to apartment 20. That's her place, and just as I'm about to knock, I recall a tiny teeny detail ...

Oh wait, that's Ross's sister, as in ... Crap.

She severed my foot! That's right, Monica Geller cut my toe a few years ago. Double crap.

And that was the last time I really saw her. Sometimes she came to our dorm room but she always left before I came in, perhaps avoiding me because of that Thanksgiving Chainsaw Massacre night.

Well, in all fairness, it wasn't a chainsaw, it was a knife she dropped while we were flirting. I think we were flirting, I can't even tell now.

Still, it _felt_ like a chainsaw. From the fuzzy memories of that night, I recall her meek apology when we were at the hospital, then she left. I went back the next day to the NYU dorms, and since then, we never really talked again.

This is going to be so uncomfortable.

Let's see, Ross and Carol are out of town and I'm out of money, so either I sleep on the street tonight or I have a very awkward conversation with the girl who was at the root of my "Sir Limps A Lot" nickname in college.

Maybe it's not that cold in New York at night this time of year …

I sigh. That wouldn't work. I shudder at the idea of being alone in the mean streets of New York at nighttime... Who am I kidding? I wouldn't survive a hot minute out there.

I take a deep breath and finally bring myself to knock. A first hesitant knock, then a second and a third more insistent ones.

The door opens and there she is.

The first thought that comes to my head was that I forgot how hot Ross's sister is. Her eyes are bluer than in my memories, her hair thicker and shinier and her body … _Stop it, Bing. Not the time or place._

Still, that's not good, my already poor social skills disappear around hot girls.

She looks at me with furrowed eyebrows and then her eyes go wide as if she's just realizing who I am, and I truly believe a vein is popping out of her forehead.

She … closes the door.

What the hell just happened?

I swallow. Does she hate me? Why would she? I am the one who should hate her! Now, that fear of confrontation faded away, instead, I feel anger coursing through my veins.

She cut my toe! And closed the door to my face! Who does any of these things, let alone both?

I take another deep breath but this time, I am riled up. I knock again, harder.

"Hey," I say, through gritted teeth as she opens again. "You know, the way a door works, is you open it," I explain while gesturing, "maybe say a greeting or two, have a conversation then you can decide whether to close it. Fairly simple concept."

"You must be Chandler."

I exhale my frustration and nod. At least she remembers me.

"Do you need anything?"

 _She won't make this easy, will she?_ I cock my head to the side, staring at her incredulously. "I was supposed to move in across the hall but no one's answering the door. Can I use your phone to call the number from the ad?"

She takes a pause, hesitating way too long for my taste. "Sure. Don't move the pen."

"The what?"

"The phone pen, please don't move it."

I shake my head and hold my hands up innocently. "I won't, I promise," I reply, though I admit I was mocking her. _A phone pen?_

I could hear her mutter "Ugh" under her breath, I ignore that and call the number from the ad. "Hello, this is Chandler. I'm calling about the roommate ad at 90 Bedford Street."

"Yeah, about that," the other voice from the phone says. "It's no longer up for rent. The apartment's illegal, dude. I'm out of there."

Blood drains from my body, I may be about to pass out. "W―what?"

"Yeah, look, man, I'm sorry but I was evicted. Something about rent control fraud."

"I can't move in?"

"Nope. The landlord's not there. Shady stuff going over that building I tell you. I live in Queens now, sorry about the hassle and good luck."

And just like that, he hangs up, and I'm _definitely_ not feeling well. I take the liberty of going over the couch to sit, not that I am thinking straight anymore. I drop my head and leave my feet instinctively on top of the table.

"What do you think you're doing?"

I turn my head to face Monica, she's standing in the kitchen chugging a bottle of water, her eyes shooting daggers at me, but that's the least of my problems at this moment.

"I―I think I'm homeless."


	2. Monica

Ever have one of those days where everything seems to go wrong from the moment you wake up?

Today is that kind of day for me.

First, I had an awful shift at the restaurant―A broken air conditioner meant I had to spend the whole breakfast service in a 120-degree kitchen. Just one of those things no one tells you about in culinary school. I came home with clothes dripping from sweat and a headache the size of Central Park.

Then, I had my weekly lunch date with my mother. My disheveled hair and tired face provided perfect ammunition for her. When she finally could talk about something other than my life choices, it was all about Ross and Carol's recent engagement and the general wonderfulness of my brother's life.

Finally, I got home, ready to take a long, well-deserved candlelit bath, only to hear someone knock on my door and find out it was …. _him_.

Chandler Bing.

 _The_ Chandler Bing.

Yes, it's just that kind of day for an old crush who called me fat behind my back to show up at my door.

The next thing I did is hard to explain. I snapped and closed the door to his face. I'm not sure it was about him. I closed the door because I was just done with this day.

_Really, universe?_

I admit it's rude, and I regretted it instantly, but he doesn't need to know that. So I opened it after another knock.

How come he's just as aloof and cocky as I remembered him to be? Some people never change.

I let him inside to make a call, trying to ignore his mocking answer to my phone pen warning. I busy myself in the kitchen but when I turn around, I find him on the couch with his feet on the table!

He's unbelievable.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I―I think I'm homeless."

I stare blankly at him, then get closer and move his feet from the table before I can process his statement.

"Homeless?"

"The apartment across the hall," he says, his head in his hands. "It's not for rent anymore, I don't have a place to live."

He looks up at me with genuine sadness washing over his face. Fine, I do feel sorry for him. "You really were going to move across the hall?"

"Well, yeah, it was Ross's idea."

"Ross!" I exclaim―or more like, yell. I couldn't help my rising voice.

Chandler cringes. "Good God, woman, I'm not deaf," he says with his hands over his ears.

I cross my arms. "Are you telling me I'm loud?"

His eyes go wide and I think he got scared from whatever look I gave him. "No, no, no … You have a perfectly normal voice, a great voice … perfect decibel."

I sigh and start to pace around the room. "I can't believe Ross didn't tell me anything about this!"

Chandler gets up and turns to face me. When I stop and look at him, he's sporting the most triumphant, smug look I've ever seen. "And that's a problem, why? Do I need your _blessing_ to move into an apartment across yours?"

I see what he's doing so I simply roll my eyes at him and try to control myself. I reach for the phone and hand it to him by shoving it a little too hard at his chest. "You should call Ross."

"You're so nice! Just what I was going to do."

He starts phoning Ross, glancing very quickly at me and a smile tugs at his lips.

I shrug it off and head to my bedroom. "I'll give you some privacy," I say, opening the door, "no shoes on the furniture!"

"Of course," he says with a polite, sheepish smile, though I can't tell if it's sarcastic or genuine. Why is he so hard to read?

I enter my room and start to clean it compulsively. I need something to do because truth be told, my mind is reeling. I don't understand why Ross thought it was a good idea for Chandler to live across from my place.

I never talked to him about what _really_ happened with Chandler over the two Thanksgivings he had spent at our house back when they were roommates in college. They were traumatic for me―and probably for him too, quite literally―and now he's here, in my living room, and it's bringing up all those memories. They're bad, mostly. I remember my crush on him, when I was fat and clingy and needy. Then, the way he was ogling me a year later after I lost the weight. I was still clingy and needy, but I was also vengeful.

It was an accident, the whole knife-to-toe situation, but my intentions weren't pure when I was flirting with him, and sometimes I feel guilty about it.

I saw him on campus on occasions when I visited Ross at NYU― but made sure to never, ever meet him again. He was Ross's roommate and his best friend, but after that Thanksgiving, Chandler was no longer a guest at our house again.

I can't blame him.

But he still annoys the hell out of me because the pain I felt back then, I still feel it now and I hate myself for being affected by him years later.

And I hate that he's not bad to look at.

And that he needs help and I can't bring myself _not_ to help people.

Just as I'm about to rethink my stance on him, I hear a knock on my door.

"Hey, Monica," Chandler says. "Ross wants to talk to you."

I open the door and I look at him, for the first time today he seems … subdued? He's not snarky or aloof. He eyes me softly, and for a moment, I could see it. I could understand why I tried so hard to please him when I was eighteen, and why I tried so hard to prove this guy wrong a year later.

I keep silent and he makes sure to hand me the phone in an exaggeratedly polite way. I see his point.

"Hey, Mon," Ross tells me on the phone as I glance to Chandler, who's just standing _there_ , shuffling his feet, looking unbearably uncomfortable.

"Hi, Ross."

"Listen, you know Chandler, right?"

"Oh yes, I do know Chandler," I say, my voice unintentionally dripping with sarcasm and Chandler looks at me with panicked eyes. I never thought he could be … so easily frightened.

"Well, he's got nowhere to go and that apartment across your hall turned out to be a bust. Could you, maybe, you know … let him crash at your place for a while?"

"Excuse me?"

"Mon, he's my best friend and needs a place to stay. He's starting his new job next week so he can help with the rent, and may I remind you, you have an empty room."

"That room is for a roommate!" I yell again, then as I realize that Chandler could hear me, I lower my voice and cover the phone. "A roommate I would pick myself, thank you very much."

"Monica, it's been months and you haven't found a roommate. This is a great opportunity. Chandler is a good guy, I promise you."

"But, but … he's a boy!"

"Well, he's not your regular boy … boy. He's my best friend and I will keep an eye on him. You can trust me. Think about it, you said you were struggling to pay the rent on your own …"

I was struggling to pay the rent. Turns out, being an assistant chef at a trendy restaurant wasn't exactly a six-figure job, and even with rent-control, I needed a roommate, except I never found one who was good enough, or neat enough.

"He's clean and tidy," Ross tells me, almost reading my mind. "You won't regret it."

Ross could be very convincing, and obsessive which means he won't let this go. I do trust his judgment. Even if the guy he's vetting is Chandler Bing. _The_ Chandler Bing.

_Maybe he changed._

"Fine," I finally answer.

"Great! Love you."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Okay, I have to go. Bye."

I hang up the phone to find that Chandler is still rooted in that spot. I wonder what's that about. He is looking at me expectantly, I walk a little to meet him halfway.

"I guess we're roommates now."


	3. Chandler

What did I get myself into?

A couple of hours ago, I was supposed to move into a new apartment ready to finally― _finally_ start my life in New York after graduating. A new job, a new place, a new roommate, it sounded so good.

I don't know why I was optimistic. I am Chandler Bing―good, wonderful things don't happen to me.

So, _of course,_ I am now dragging my bags to move into the apartment of the girl who cut my toe and hates my guts.

It could be worse, I could be homeless. Ross convinced me before he convinced his sister. How he achieved to do that, I don't know.

It seems like she genuinely can't stand me, I still don't know why, but I also understand that I don't make great first impressions, or second impressions, or third … Ok, maybe I'm a not very impressive person.

While she was calling Ross and he was working his magic, I stopped and looked at her, reflecting on the absurdity of this whole situation.

How am I supposed to share an apartment with a girl? I never lived with a girl. Frankly, my exposure to the opposite sex is so limited that I hardly know how to talk to a girl.

The thing is, Monica Geller is not just a girl, she's a hot girl.

Not just hot, she's freaking beautiful.

I hate that she's hot. I hate that she's a brunette because I really like her long, dark hair and the way it's pulled back into a messy yet neat bun. How did she do that? It's magical.

I hate that her eyes are so blue I can't look away.

And I hate myself right now because she just glanced at me and her eyebrows are frowning, she must think I'm a creep. That's all I need to feel suddenly out of place and I don't know what to do with myself anymore.

Eventually, she hangs up and now, we're roommates. Roomies. Bunkmates. Bedfellows.

She's quiet, though no more thrilled than me with the news. I feel like I'm walking on a minefield with her, and every word I say could detonate a landmine.

I move my bags into the other room, Monica heads to her bedroom and I take time to appreciate the apartment.

I'm not so unlucky after all, it is a pretty amazing apartment. It has two bedrooms, a balcony, wood floors, purple and blue colors popping everywhere. It's welcoming and bursting with joy in a very organized, meticulous way. I wonder if it says something about her.

The furniture looks rather old though―like they were inherited from another era, it's that or Monica has a peculiar taste for a Twenty-two-year-old New Yorker.

When I enter my room, it does feel very … grandma-ish. I need to do something about that. When I was supposed to move across the hall, I was excited to finally have my man cave. My plans might be derailed, but I'm twenty-three, it's time to have my own sanctuary.

I get out of the bedroom and find Monica scrubbing the spot where my feet were on the table. _Really?_

"How attached are you to the furniture in this room?" I ask her.

She looks up and glances between me and the room, her eyes suspicious. "Why?"

"Why? Because I'd like to, you know, not live in my grandma's bedroom."

I see her nostrils grow bigger as she inhales. She turns her head and gets back to cleaning. "No way in hell, Bing. The room stays the same, take it or leave."

Oh my God, she is so infuriating.

I understand why she couldn't find a roommate. It's not the apartment, it's her.

"What did you just say?"

_Crap_. I was thinking out loud. She's going to kill me.

My eyes go wide and my mouth hangs open. "I―I … nothing, I―"

Dammit. I'm _actually_ speechless, and totally flustered. It's the look she's giving me, it's so … _mean_! She's folding her arms tightly over her chest, tilting her head to the side, her eyes narrowing into tiny, angry slits. It's the meanest, most intimidating look anyone has given me in my life. I hope there are no knives within her reach.

"I thought I wouldn't need to do this, but clearly I do. Sit at the table, it's time for your orientation," she finally says.

That's enough to bring me back to reality. I shake my head. "Orientation?"

"I should have given you your roommate orientation binder the moment I hung up that phone."

Holy Mother of God. _What did I get myself into?_

"So I just have to live in a reality where you have _roommate orientation binders_ hanging around."

"This isn't how I planned to get a roommate. We need to set some ground rules, so sit and pay attention, because I won't repeat myself."

"Is there a ground rule for not sounding like a fifth-grade teacher?"

She huffs and straightens up and I go sit at the table where she joins me. I'm half terrified and half entertained. This girl, this woman … she's crazy _and_ crazy hot. My excitement at the idea of attending her insane roommating class does disappoint me. I feel like I'm two different guys at the moment. I'm a guy who finds his roommate insanely attractive and I'm also the guy who can't stand his roommate's insanity.

The first guy usually wins over the second.

An hour later, and I feel my eyelids getting heavier until she snaps her fingers at me.

"Chandler! I'm not done."

I open my eyes widely and blink at her. "I'm with you. No shoes on the furniture."

"That was rule number one, from an hour ago! Have you been listening to anything?"

"Of course, I did. I just needed a break."

She raises a skeptical eyebrow at me.

"Eleven categories of towels. Numbered mugs and plates. Everything in its exact right place. Bathroom clean at all times," I proudly enumerate.

She seems impressed. "I underestimated you, Bing."

I smile because I know that's as close to an apology as Monica is capable of giving. "There's more here than meets the eye," I say, pointing at myself with two thumbs-up in a self-deprecating tone.

Her nose crinkles and she bites her lip and glances away quickly in an attempt to hide a smile that almost appeared on her face. God, I wish she would let that smile out, because now I feel obligated to make her smile. It is now my only mission on earth to make that happen. I want to see this organization-freak, neurotic, mean girl smile and laugh because I'm pretty sure that would be the greatest thing to ever happen.

She clears her throat and I can tell she's trying to get back in control. "So, what's wrong with apartment 19?"

I sigh. "Rent control fraud."

"Rent control fraud?" she says in a worried tone as a flash of guilt appears on her face.

Huh. That's interesting.

"Yeah, they were subletting under a dead person's name for peanuts. I should have known the rent was too good to be true. I mean, $500/month in Greenwich Village? Wishful thinking."

She looks away, thoughtful.

Oh, that's more than interesting. From the moment I entered this apartment, Monica never once looked anything other than confident and intimidating, but she's hiding something. Something I will make sure to find out.

"So what's the rent for this place?" I ask innocently.

Once again, she avoids eye contact. _Warm._

"Oh, it's … good. I, I got a … pretty good deal."

She's stuttering. _Warmer._

"Hmm, I should probably take a look at the lease since I'll be paying half," I tell her and scrutinize her reaction.

She shakes her head and still avoids me. "That's … not necessary, you give me your half every month and I'll take care of it. I don't mind the hassle."

"I don't mind the hassle either. The landlord seems nice."

_I never met with the landlord._

Her eyes go wide. "Did he tell you anything? Did you say anything?"

This time she's looking straight at me, swallowing hard. _So much warmer._

"Why are you so worried? As long as you're not illegally subletting a rent-controlled apartment, you're fine with the landlord."

Her jaw drops and that's all I needed to know. _Hot, hot, hot!_

I laugh uncontrollably. "Oh my. I can't believe this!"

I laugh so hard my body is shaking. "Goody-goody Geller is committing rent control fraud. That is the best thing I've heard today." My chest is heaving as I try to catch my breath, I glance at her and she's definitely not laughing with me.

In fact, she looks pissed. "First of all, don't ever call me that."

"Goody-goody Geller? Well, I won't, you don't deserve it anymore. You're a criminal. You could be Al Capone's granddaughter for all I know."

She smirks and whacks me as I laugh again. "Stop it, Chandler! It's my grandmother's apartment, ok? The lease is under her name but she left for Florida and she let me live here. She loves this place and lived here since the 1930s. I think it's fair," she says sincerely, and I can't help but stop laughing and instead smile appreciatively at her candid confession.

"It is fair, you're right. You've done a great job with the place," I say, as earnest as I can, and the corner of her mouth curls up in a glorious smile.

_That smile._

"You smiled." The words leave my mouth before I could think them over.

"What?"

"Nothing, just making the observation that you smiled at me, for the first time today."

She stops smiling immediately, though I can tell she's trying really hard. "You're an idiot."

"I am, probably, but an idiot who made you smile."

She smiles again at that, and oh my God, it is the most amazing thing. I know I will be ruined when I hear her laugh for the first time.

"So, now that I know your dirty little secret," I tease again, "I think we can both agree your grandmother would love for me to have a TV in my room, don't you think?"

"Are you blackmailing me?"

"I'm trying," I say, my eyes darting uncertainly.

"Fine, I'll let you have this one."

"We're going to be great roommates together, Geller." I reach my hand for her to shake.

She hesitates a moment and shakes it back. "Ok. Maybe."

I tap my fingers on my chin. "You know, instead of that old poster over your TV, we could hang one of those road signs that say _Merge_ to celebrate this amicable deal."

She stares at me blankly then proceeds to leave the table. "Don't push it, Bing."

I can't stop smiling to myself. I think we just bonded.


	4. Monica

"Chandler! What did I tell you about leaving your clothes on the couch?"

Chandler appears from his bedroom and smiles sheepishly at me. "That you understand how I come home tired and forget and you know I'm sorry?"

He tiptoes to grab the clothes and takes them back quickly to his room.

I sigh.

Staying mad at Chandler is like trying to stay mad at a puppy.

It's been a week since he moved in, and I wonder if he's been on his best behavior or that he's just … a good roommate? The clothes on the couch and the hogging of the bathroom in the morning are my only nitpicks. They're the only times he _slips up_ and maybe that's why I'm coming down hard on him.

It's annoying that he isn't annoying me more.

I try but then he smiles at me. That goofy, inviting warm smile of his. It's like his whole face smiles right along with his mouth and every negative feeling I have dissipates.

I don't like what his smile does to me.

I don't like what this past week has been doing to me.

He follows the rules we set and takes instruction well. He does act like a child sometimes, for example when I surprised him after he was clearly watching porn on TV, but overall, it might seem that my judgment on Chandler Bing was … rushed.

For one, he's a lot more sophisticated than I thought he was. I can see him devour every single word of the New York Times, I see the books he reads and he often helps me with my crossword puzzles. He wears nice suits to work and vests even in his free time like a prep kid.

I wonder why he doesn't let people get to know that side of him. Instead, he punctuates every sentence with some kind of lame joke that he tries to explain afterward. But I can see through it. He's a smart guy. I have no idea what his job _actually_ is―he still never says a word about it and it looks like a boring office job, but I know one thing for sure, his potential is wasted there.

I'm brought out of my thoughts by the sound of the door opening, Ross enters the apartment. He's finally back from his mini-vacation with Carol.

"Hey, Monica," he says and comes to hug me.

"Hey, how was it?"

"It was great, we had the best time," he responds as Chandler comes out of his room and greets him as well, joining us in the kitchen.

"The place looks great, guys," he says, looking between us. "I admit I was scared to find a crime scene when I came back."

Chandler shoots me a look and I shake my head.

"How are my two favorite _roomies_ doing?"

"Please don't call us that," Chandler deadpans.

"It's going well," I say, glancing at Chandler, trying not to give away any particular expression. "So far," I add and he rolls his eyes.

Ross grins and hugs us both tightly. "My best friend and my sister! I can't believe this. I am so glad you're getting along. I always knew you two could be best friends if you gave it a chance but I thought after that Thanksgiving―"

"Woah, woah, we're not best friends," Chandler cuts him off.

"We're not even friends," I defend.

"Oh, come on, if you've survived one week here and she hasn't killed you, you are friends."

"Hey!" I exclaim toward Ross in an outraged tone.

"But Ross, she is _so_ mean."

"Hey!" I say to Chandler this time. "I am right here!"

Ross stands between both of us and puts his hands up to calm us down. "Okay, let's say you're not best friends, but you're on your way to being friends. Happy?"

"Fine," we both mutter under our breath.

Ross nods, satisfied and walks into the living room. He takes a look at Chandler's room. "Wow, she let you have a TV in there?" He turns looking at him, then smirks. "Oh yeah, you two are definitely friends."

* * *

Since Chandler moved in, we successfully avoided being too much on top of each other. I work really early, and I sometimes come home very late, depending on my shifts at Iridium, while Chandler has a regular 9 to 5 job.

Today is my day off, and I decided to spend it at home, clean the apartment from any remnant of boy smell and try out a new dish I want to suggest to the head chef.

Scratch that, Chandler's smell is surprisingly un-boy like. He smells like fresh menthol body shave but soft and gentle.

It's … nice.

He's sitting on the couch, watching television after coming home, taking off his work clothes which he made sure not to leave there.

Progress.

I wonder why he's watching television here when he has one in his room.

I take a look at the oven―the signature dish I'm making for the chef is coming along nicely. I fried sweetbreads on top of mushroom wheatberry risotto with lemon beurre and a parmesan frico. It's simple enough while still full of flavor to suit Iridium's cuisine, this could be my one shot at getting a promotion. Being an assistant chef is great to learn the ropes, but I feel it's time to show what I can really do.

I go back to the living room and start fluffing the pillows. I look at Chandler then at his room.

"Do you want me to clean your room?" I ask.

"My room is clean, thanks."

"It's no big deal, you know. I won't look or sniff around, but since I'm cleaning the apartment …"

"It's okay, but thanks for asking."

I take a deep breath and try to keep my compulsion in check. I've never cleaned the apartment and left out a room … or a corner, or any stone unturned. It doesn't make sense, if one room is dirty and the rest is clean, it just nullifies all that hard work and oh God, this is testing me on a whole new level.

"It wouldn't take long, you wouldn't even notice. I'm pretty good at this cleaning thing―"

"I noticed," he says cheekily.

Damn, he's on to me.

He looks up and grins like he knows something I don't, or he just cracked a code. "You really can't help but clean it?"

I look down and shrug my shoulders. I hate that he's seeing right through me and on the other hand, I'm relieved he's seeing right through me and I don't have to further explain myself.

"Go at it, kid," he adds while switching the channel; and I can't hide my trepidation. I take a dustpan and my gloves. A twenty-something guy bedroom, this will be a tough but exciting challenge.

I open his bedroom, expecting the worst, and scan it. Except for some books and movie posters, a couple of toys and the TV set, it's pretty much unchanged.

And it is clean. I swipe my finger on the furniture and there's no dust. The windows are clean, the bed is well made. I don't understand.

I get out of his bedroom with what I'm guessing, a look of surprise on my face because Chandler is watching me all cocky and smug.

"It's clean," I tell him, not sure if it's a compliment or an admonishment.

"Why wouldn't it be? I like things clean."

He's poking fun at me with that self-satisfied look and that enormous grin. "Geller, just give up. I'm basically the cleanest guy around."

"And you're straight?" The words escape me and I cringe at myself.

He gets up and walks over to me, his arms crossed but his expression hard to read. "Straight guys can be clean."

"Of course."

He closes the gap and my first instinct is to back down, which is nothing like me. I _never_ back down, so I take a step forward to get back to my original spot. I get a whiff of that fresh menthol smell of his and my stomach flutters. What is happening to me?

He stops at some point, still watching me expressionless.

Briefly, I wonder if he can feel the tension in the room. If he can sense the shift.

"I hope you know I'm not gay, right?"

Boy, do I know. I remember how he ogled me on that Thanksgiving night. Though a lot could have happened in the intervening years, I _heard_ the porn from his room.

"I know," I say then look down. When I look up I'm met by those light blue eyes, they never looked as intense as they do now. I'm once again met by his smell and I'm met with that crooked, charming smile appearing slowly on his face. Is he happy with my answer? Relieved? Why should I care?

I realize this is dangerous territory and a terrible idea on all counts. I shake my head.

_Quick, Monica, change the subject. Right. Now._

"I'm glad you're clean. Makes it easier for me. I like things clean, but you have clearly noticed by now."

I'm sure my voice is betraying me, but his smile grows into a grin. And this time, his expression is easy to read. He's back into teasing mode.

"Are you glad I'm straight?"

He is joking, because his eyebrow is raised and the corners of his lips always quirk up when he makes a joke. But it doesn't feel like a joke to the foggy, confused mind of mine at the moment.

I look at him, seriously, because for some reason, right now I'm not in the mood to joke about the monumental waves of emotions I've experienced in the past minutes. The crush I had on him when I was eighteen is coming back to me like a boomerang. Except it's not exactly a teenage, innocent crush.

The images flashing through my mind when he was close to me were anything but innocent.

His expression changes too and it seems he's surprised by my seriousness. His head tilts and his eyebrows frown. Maybe he is, in fact, sensing the shift.

Maybe not.

God, I hope not.

All of a sudden, I hear a knock on the door and the sound interrupts whatever moment we were having. Chandler laughs nervously, shakes his head and turns to open the door.

I take this opportunity to take a deep breath and calm down.

The door swings open and a woman in a low-cut dress appears.

Chandler tenses up. "Mom, what are you doing here?"


	5. Chandler

"Mom, what are you doing here?"

"Chandler, honey, this isn't how you greet your mother. I raised you better than this."

"Did you?" I say under my breath as my mother huffs at me and invites herself inside the apartment.

She is wearing a low cut dress, her lips are thick with a red gloss and her … chest area is re-arranged in a visually _unavoidable_ way.

Joan Crawford reincarnated.

Of course, my father is also Joan Crawford reincarnated, and I don't think it takes a hundred-bucks-a-session psychiatrist to uncover the source of all my Freudian issues.

I rub my temples and close my eyes.

The last thing I needed was my mother showing up at my door while I try to handle a roommate whose meanness seems to turn me on.

"How did you know I lived here?" I ask her.

Mom scans the apartment then turns to me. She raises an eyebrow and I know she doesn't need to answer.

"Ross," I say with a sigh.

"Chandler, did you think I wouldn't visit your first apartment?"

"I was counting on it."

She smirks at me. "I wanted to know why this place was so special you'd give up on a penthouse in the Upper East Side."

While she inspects the kitchen and living room, I realize that Monica went to her room which only makes her earlier behavior the more intriguing.

_One problem at a time, Bing._

"This place looks great. That's a good reason to move out, I guess." She then comes to hug me. "How are you doing, kiddo?"

Most mothers ask that question at the door. Not mine.

"I'm fine. Thank you, Mom."

While she's hugging me, Monica appears from her bedroom, looking slightly flushed. I notice her hair is down now, and she's wearing a casual blue summer dress that shows off her shoulders. I can't help but stare―her collarbones are defined, her chest is deliciously peppered with freckles and her arms are sculpted.

That explains the early morning runs. I can humbly say they're worth it.

When she gracefully tugs a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles at me, my stomach drops somewhere around my navel.

My mother seems to notice my facial expression at the end of our hug, and she turns to find Monica.

I'm not exactly the king of subtlety.

"Oh, _now_ that's a better reason to move out. Chandler, would you introduce me to this lovely young woman?"

I try to speak but I'm so embarrassed that I was caught in the act of lusting after my roommate, I stutter in silence.

Thankfully, upon seeing me, Monica puts me out of my misery and walks to greet my mother.

"Hi, I'm Monica. I'm Chandler's roommate. Nice to meet you."

My mother raises an eyebrow, and glances at me, as if she's giving me her approval. "Well, hello Monica. I'm the mother. Nice to meet you. You two are roommates?"

"Yes, we are. I was looking for a roommate and Chandler appeared just like that at my doorstep," Monica says as she snaps her fingers pointedly at me and I roll my eyes at her.

My mother's gaze is, as ever, scrutinizing me. She always hints at something even when there's nothing to hint at. I will never forget the day she bought me condoms the first time she saw me hanging out with a girl at summer camp.

"Mom, how about you make yourself comfortable on the couch, I need to talk to Monica in the kitchen." I raise an eyebrow to Monica and tilt my head so that she joins me.

I see a grin appearing on her face, taking delight at my embarrassment.

"Mrs. Bing, would you like a drink?" Monica says on her way.

"How about water, honey?"

Monica nods and starts walking when my mother cuts her off.

"Oh, Monica?"

"Yes."

"Please call me Nora. Bing is Chandler's father's name. I am as free as the wind."

"Oh, ok," Monica says with a polite smile.

We're by the sink, and I start to whisper to her. "Ok, so my mother is here."

She purses her lips. "That's your mother? I don't see it."

"Oh stop it. I'm serious. Can we please pretend that we get along? I don't want to make this harder than it already is."

" _Pretend_ we get along?" Monica crosses her arms. "You don't like me?" she says, her voice suddenly loud.

"Shhh. No, I mean― _You_ don't like me. Just pretend you can stand me for once."

"You think I can't stand you?"

If there was a Guinness record for most questions asked in less than a minute, Monica would hold it.

I take a deep breath and plead with my hands. "Please, Monica, can we have this incredibly interesting conversation another day?"

"Fine, fine. You know what? Let me deal with this. Dinner is ready, we can have a nice meal all together."

My eyes dart as I ponder her plan. I look back at her, there's something about Monica that makes me trust her. "Okay, we do that then she can leave. Let's do that."

Monica bends down to take out the dinner from the oven and once again, I pause. My eyes can't help but slowly scroll from the dress, down her tanned legs and back up again. I inhale and close my eyes.

This isn't the moment for the chemicals in my brain and the blood in my veins to conjure up visuals and mental images that will entertain my nights and morning showers for eternity.

"Oh, by the way," Monica says, bringing me out of my internal turmoil, with the plate in her hands. "This is a favor. You owe me now, buddy."

I sigh and watch her serve dinner as my mother joins us at the table. Once we're seated, Monica brings a bottle of wine.

The table is set with patterned tablecloths, placemats, napkins, and fancy china, and it's a noticeable change when you're used to paper plates, boxed wine, and microwaved meals.

Living with a chef has its perks.

"How did you two meet?" My mother asks and I'm a little taken aback. I guess it's an innocent, predictable question for a parent to ask when they're having dinner with their kid and another person, but I didn't expect it. Probably because Nora Bing has never been innocent or predictable in her entire life.

"Well," I start, "it's a funny story―"

Monica interrupts me. "Chandler came over our house with Ross for Thanksgiving when they were in college. He told us he didn't eat Thanksgiving food so I made him Mac and Cheese instead. That's how we met."

I stare blankly at Monica. I wonder why she recalled that particular detail. Her expression is soft, if not tinged with sadness. Is it because of the toe incident? Or something else? I'm finding it hard to understand the shift of her emotions at the mention of our first meeting. Until now, she was doing a great job of pretending we're the best of friends in front of my mother, but there is _something_ there I can't pinpoint exactly.

"She made you Mac and Cheese for Thanksgiving and you didn't marry her right then?" Mom says jokingly to me.

My eyes go wide but Monica laughs with her.

"It's ok, Nora. I was different back then … physically. Not really Chandler's type. We're better as friends and now we're best friends _and_ roommates! Don't you agree, _Chan_?"

_Not my type?_

_Chan_?

She is so bad at this whole best-friends pretending.

"I agree, _Mon_ ," I say through gritted teeth.

"Well, my son can be a real idiot sometimes."

Monica raises her eyebrows. "Yes, he can be."

Oh good. They're ganging up on me.

"Chandler, honey, you got to get over that weird Thanksgiving food fixation," Mom tells me.

"I don't want to get into this, and trust me, you don't want to either." I can't help the harsh tone of my voice.

"Chandler," she pleads with me.

"Nora," Monica says, defusing the tension. "What do you do? I feel like I've seen you somewhere."

"Oh, honey. I'm a writer. You might have caught me on a late-night show or two."

"Yes! I remember that. Oh wait, Nora Bing, of course! I had a friend who loved every single one of your books."

"Oh, then I should get them a signed copy."

"We don't―we're no longer friends."

"That's unfortunate. It's terrible losing a friend. One of my friends stopped talking to me when she learned I wrote erotica novels. It's sad, but what can you do? You have to move on. Become your own fabulous person."

"That's what I'm trying to do," Monica says, blushing.

Mom goes on to talk about her world book tour and telling us about all the men she slept with, in every European capital city. Monica is riveted, I am ready to combust.

I decide to ignore them and finally take a bite out of the dish before me, and I feel an explosion of deliciousness in my mouth. I nod while I finish chewing.

"Wow!" I exclaim, and they both turn to me. "Did you make this, Monica?"

"Did you see little elves running in the kitchen?" she says and my mother laughs. "Yes, yes, I did."

"It's so good!"

"Really? You think so?"

"Yeah. I have no idea what's in it but it's heaven."

"Thank you, Chandler. It's a dish I'm making for the restaurant. I thought we could try it out."

"Consider me your guinea pig at your entire disposal from now on."

I enjoy every bite and I'm rewarded by Monica's glorious smile, her eyes are shining with pride and happiness. I know all the credit goes to her for cooking, but I love the way she lightens up at my compliment. I'm learning that she enjoys being complimented and I might enjoy complimenting her just to see that look. She can be so tough and intense but then she's all maternal, shiny and bright, and full of life …. it's annoying that it makes me feel things as much as her bending down in that dress.

My mother clears her throat, and I realize we've ignored her for the past few minutes. She glances at me, then at her, then at me again, full-on third-degree mode.

She takes a sip out of her glass of wine and turns to Monica. "So, Monica, a beautiful woman, great cook like you, if you were a character in one of my books, you wouldn't be single for long. Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Mom, I don't think that's appropriate―"

"I don't have a boyfriend," Monica says and she steals a glance at me, and for a second I think it is to gauge my reaction, checking how I might feel about that.

I don't know what the glance means, all I know is that my nerves crawled up my throat and my heart skipped a beat.

That glance felt like time froze.

That glance could have massive, epic, intergalactic implications.

"That's interesting," my mother says with a raised eyebrow toward me.

"Is it, though?" I reply, sarcastically. "How about we talk about something else? Something less personal and uncomfortable."

"Let's talk about you, Chandler," Mom insists, and I know it's downhill from there. "How are things at your work?"

"It's fine."

"It's fine? Well, what do you do?"

"Something to do with data and numbers and computers. It's good money. Great benefits."

She isn't convinced. "Chandler, you could be a fantastic writer if you wanted to."

"Wait, you write erotica novels?" Monica says with a cheeky smile.

"No!" I say defensively. "I don't write anything."

Mom ignores me and looks at Monica. "Chandler wrote for his school's newspaper. He was fantastic."

"Oh, why did you stop?"

"Because it made me too popular with the school jocks and the cheerleaders," I reply, which at least has the merit of making Monica grin.

"Stop it, honey. Your writing was funny and biting. I can't believe you're giving up so easily," she says, then turns to Monica. "I always taught him to follow his dreams. You shouldn't be stuck in a job you don't like, kiddo."

"We can't all live frivolously and ignore our responsibilities, Mom."

"Anyone wants dessert?"

Monica gets up to bring dessert while I glare at my mother and her frankly inappropriate life lessons.

"Unfortunately, I can't stay for dessert," Mom gets up and reaches for her bag.

"What, you got a hot date?" I ask her.

"How did you know?"

I stare blankly at her. "Just a lucky guess."

"Monica, tonight was wonderful. Your cooking is fantastic, it's good to know my son is in good hands. It was very nice to meet you."

"It was nice to meet you too. Mrs.―Nora. Have a nice … date."

My mother kisses me on the cheek. "Oh, Chandler? Since you two are _just_ roommates," she trails off as she looks at Monica then at me, "are you seeing anyone?"

"Nope."

"What about that girl you met after graduation? Jasmin, Janet?"

"Janice," I correct her. "It's kind of on and off. And it's off right now."

I look at Monica and I can see her jaw tighten and her nostrils slightly flare-up, her eyes intense and fixed on one spot. It's one of the many things I picked up from living with her. A carefully practiced look of indifference, but a hurricane inside of her. I know this look because she's given me this look―for the way I leave the towels after a shower or forgetting to arrange the cups and plates in the order of their numbers.

I also know this look is not about a terribly executed chore.

"You should give her a call. Have a little fun," Mom continues. "It's good to be a little frivolous."

I don't answer and simply shrug while I keep my eyes trained on Monica.

"Alright children, be good," she tells us with a wink. "Chandler, call me. I know where you live now."

I accompany her to the door and tell her goodbye. When I turn back, Monica is cleaning the table.

"Do you want me to help you?"

"No, thank you," she answers harshly.

"Monica, let me help for making you go through that."

"Through what? Your mother is wonderful."

I snort. "Right."

I take a dish from her hands and I can finally feel her give up, we start to wash the dishes in silence.

"You could have told me had a girlfriend, you know."

"She's not a girlfriend, she's just a girl I've been seeing sometimes."

"That's a girlfriend."

"No, it's more complicated."

Truthfully, I would never publicly refer to Janice as my "girlfriend." She functions more as a stopgap for complete loneliness when Ross got engaged after graduation. The kind of relationship that is hard to describe. Janice was into me more than I ever was into her. But she was _into me_ , that never happens and sometimes it's nice just to know someone likes you, and sometimes it's apparently enough for a complicated relationship.

I haven't gone back to Janice since I moved in with Monica.

Scratch that.

I haven't thought about her from the moment Monica opened the door to her apartment then closed it to my face.

What does it say that Monica being mean to me makes me feel more alive than being with a girl who's actually into me?

A question I'd rather not ask myself right now as I watch Monica reach for a towel to dry her hands.

I look at her and she's leaning against the counter, looking down. "Before your mother came, did you― were you―"

"What?"

She finally looks up at me, and I don't know if the tightness in her eyes is a good or bad omen.

"Was there a moment?" she asks again, her eyes firmly on my face.

"A moment?"

"No. Nothing. There was nothing. You should call Janet or Jasmin or whatever."

I let out a long, controlled breath. "Monica, stop. Do you have something to tell me?"

A pause follows as we maintain eye contact. "No. I'm sorry. I'm just tired," she says, and with that, she walks to her room.

She stops just before reaching the handle and slowly turns to me. "Chandler, you were wrong."

"About what?"

"About me not liking you. I like you. I think we can be friends."

I nod.

"I didn't have to pretend tonight." Her voice is so thin, it slices my heart like a knife. She opens the door and disappears into her bedroom.

She didn't let me answer her back.

I wasn't pretending either. I like her too.


	6. Monica

When I close the door to my bedroom, I lean against it and take a deep breath.

Chandler and I are becoming friends, that's good. Roommates should be friends, that's how it's supposed to work.

This attraction thing … I can control it, keep it in check. It's not too late. I can still make this work.

Having a tiny crush on your roommate is stupid, anyway. I know this, everyone knows this. It's a truth universally accepted.

Having a crush on your roommate in New York is simply irresponsible. Apartments are harder to find than soulmates, and all of my life, I have been nothing if not responsible.

It's just a crush. A stupid, irresponsible crush goes away. I just need to remind myself of his most unflattering ways―like how lazy he can be sometimes sitting on the couch all day long in front of the TV on weekends or the way he does the dishes wrong, or how he can't answer a simple question without being sarcastic or quippy.

_Laziness. Dishes. Sarcasm._

I have to remember all of this, because tonight I met his mother, and his mother is nothing like him. Chandler is guarded and aloof. His mother is eccentric, blunt, and outspoken. Yet I would never for a second doubt that he came from this woman. Genetics work in mysterious ways.

I realize how much more complicated this guy actually is. I felt his discomfort and sensed his resentment. Because that's how my mother makes me feel too. It takes one to know one.

I suppose that's one thing we have in common.

_Don't go down that road._

Tonight, sleep escapes me and I keep twisting and turning in my bed. It's past midnight so I wake up and make my way to the kitchen. I pass by the balcony window and notice the silhouette of a figure standing reflected by the city night lights.

It's Chandler.

I hesitate for a moment before tightening my night robe around my waist, and I climb over the balcony window.

"Hey," I call to him, as if I'm interrupting somehow.

He turns, looking surprised, with a cigarette between his fingers. "Hey."

_Laziness. Dishes. Sarcasm. Smoking._

"You know, smoking is really bad for you," I say as I cross my arms.

He takes another drag before taking out the cigarette and inspecting it. "Is that so?"

"Well, yeah."

He suddenly drops it and squashes it with his feet in dramatic fashion. "I had no idea. Why no one tells you that?"

I roll my eyes as I realize he's being his usual sarcastic self. "Fine," I say as he flashes his crooked grin at me.

"Why are you up? It's way past your usual 8 p.m. bedtime."

"Okay, Mom," I reply sarcastically. Two can play at this game. "Can't sleep. Why are _you_ up?"

"Just doing some thinking."

I raise my eyebrows. "Thinking?"

"I'm as shocked as you are." He looks at me and the corners of his mouth turn up.

I smile back and get closer. "You know, dinner was nice. Your mother is―"

"Outrageous?"

"Yes," I say with a laugh. "And you're so―"

"Repressed? Awkward? Clumsy?"

I shrug my shoulders and laugh a little. "Mothers are tricky. I get it."

"You do?"

"Unfortunately, yes. You have the Joan Collins version and I have the Mommie Dearest version."

"Oh boy. We should form a club."

We laugh together as he leans against the balcony rail. I can't help but notice how handsome he looks, even in the dark.

If only he wasn't a smoker and wasn't so sarcastic, he'd have women lining up.

He takes out another cigarette from his pocket and right before lightning it up, he looks at me. "Want a smoke?"

I let out a nervous laugh as if it was the most absurd suggestion. "Oh, no, no," I say around a cackle then finally calm down, "I don't smoke."

"Right. Goody-goody Geller."

I take another step and smack him lightly on the shoulder. "Will you stop with that? It's bad for you and the smell is disgusting."

"Okay," is all he says, playing with the cigarette around his fingers. "Hey, thanks for dinner. It was cool to have a buffer."

"Yeah, it was fun."

"I owe you, Geller."

"Oh, I wasn't―" I trail off until I realize an opportunity is presenting itself. "You do owe me. How about you stop smoking?"

He looks at me then at the cigarette. He shakes his head, thinking, then decides to put the cigarette back in his pocket. "I was going to stop anyway."

I clench my fist with joy, celebrating my victory, my smile too big to bite back. "I'm going to go back to bed," I finally say, then I stand on my tiptoes to reach him and kiss him on the cheek. "Goodnight, Chandler."

He smiles at me softly. "Goodnight, Mon."

I turn around to come back inside, feeling warmth fill me when I realize he's shortened my name out of familiarity and without a hint of mockery this time.

It's true, Chandler can be lazy and sarcastic and sloppy but I recognize that under those layers and layers of dry humor and sardonicism, he's gentle and vulnerable and a little lost.

I'm a little lost too.

I could picture a friendship blossom. Truthfully, I don't have many friends. I get along with people at the restaurant and I get along with Ross, but ever since high school, I never had friends who weren't co-workers or siblings.

Like an epiphany, it is at this moment precisely that I know Chandler and me are two lost souls destined to keep each other company and become friends. And I could never ever mess it up because of a crush.

In New York, apartments are prized and soulmates are serendipitous, but friendships are priceless.

* * *

It's been a few weeks and living with Chandler hasn't exactly sucked.

I get to see the real Chandler Bing, the sweet Chandler Bing―thanking me for cleaning the dishes, or doing his bed the right way, knowing full well it isn't a favor to him but an urgent need to satisfy for myself.

He buys take-out food when he gets home early and I'm too tired to cook.

We hang out at the bar downstairs, playing pool, knowingly rolling our eyes when Ross and Carol make googly eyes at each other.

We watch TV and talk about our days and our jobs. I tell him about the mysterious wine guy and the lazy waitress at the restaurant, he tells me about his "riding the clock" office tricks and his awful boss.

It's like living with a best girlfriend, but the male version, who's also not too bad to look at.

I've ended up learning a few things about living with a boy.

Well, not living with a boy.

Living with a Chandler.

One. I found out how awesome it is to have someone tell me my cooking is good. Who doesn't enjoy compliments?

Two. I found out how convenient it is to have a perpetually ready adventure buddy. So far, I dragged him to multiple grocery store trips, to the Sunday markets, and even on a jog in Central Park. He complains every single time yet always agrees to come to the next one.

Three. I found out that we're both pathetically without any plans on Saturday nights, which we spend playing Scrabble or cards or watch a cheesy movie.

Four. I found out he never takes his socks off, and it made me wonder if it was because of me thanks to the foot injury inflicted on him, and if we'll ever bring it up.

Five. I found out he uses my body lotion, my moisturizer, my shampoo, and still thinks I don't know.

Six. I found out his favorite drink is a YooHoo. Any other adult man drinking chocolate milk would be strange to me, but getting to know Chandler, he almost makes it cute.

Seven. I found out that when you're living with a roommate and specifically a guy, the bathroom area is dangerous territory.

Because boys wake up in the middle of the night to pee, yawning and rubbing their eyes, barely registering anything around them and it just happens that tonight, I came home very late and decided to take a shower before bed.

Just when I was putting the towel around me, and drying my hair, Chandler walks in and he's … naked.

His hair is disheveled, his chest is smooth, and I'm not proud that I caught this so quickly … but he's surprisingly well equipped down there.

Still, I'm shocked and I gasp, tightening the towel around me.

"Chandler! Get out!"

Chandler finally opens his eyes and his jaw drops. Damnit, he might have seen me naked.

"Oh, oh, sorry," he says, before finally going it out of the bathroom. "Sorry, Mon, I … I didn't see you."

"It's okay, Chandler. Just … put on some clothes."

"Oh, yeah. I'm sorry."

"It's … It's fine."

"Okay. I'll go back to my room. You know what? I don't need to pee. It can wait. Goodnight."

I close the door then close my eyes and take a deep breath.

_Dammit, why am I turned on?_

It was barely a glimpse. Yet, I'm suddenly very aware of the bits of my body below my waist that have been ignored for so long.

I shake my head and admonish myself. This is ridiculous. This is the consequence of a long, sad dry spell.

I walk back to my bedroom, ready to forget _yet_ another unfortunate incident with Chandler.

Except I definitely can't sleep now because I'm haunted by him. There's only a wall separating us, and all I can focus on is that he's on the other side, and I deplorably wonder what he saw and what he felt.

The rest of the night goes about the same. I try to sleep but keep imagining my roommate grabbing me and touching me under the hot stream of water in my shower after he accidentally walks in on me naked, I keep thinking about how his arms would feel around me and how my hands would feel in his golden brown, oh-so-soft hair.

When I wake up from a short night of sleep, I'm still fantasizing about every naked inch of him.

I'm losing control over the stupid, irresponsible crush.

_Hey, universe … seeing him naked? Not helping!_

It's early enough that I can avoid a potentially uncomfortable conversation. My head is still full of confusing thoughts as I put on my robe before opening my bedroom door.

I'm faced with an unfamiliar smell of pancakes.

I know for a fact Chandler is hopeless in a kitchen.

Oh no.

Somebody is messing up my kitchen!

And it's a woman.

She turns to me, her hair is big and curly, and the eccentricity of her clothes makes Chandler's mother look like a nun. She's wearing a leopard-printed pantsuit and the flashiest of jewelry.

She looks at me and grins. "Oh. My. God!" she says in a heavy Queens accent and a nasal voice, her hands flapping at me. "You are too pretty to be Chandler's roommate, I can't let him live with you!" she adds before pausing then bursting into an unbearable cackling laugh.

She must have woken up Chandler because he opens his bedroom door, wearing a robe, with socks on, of course, and then looks between the both of us.

"Good morning, honey," she says, looking straight at Chandler. "I made you pancakes, you need some energy after last night."

I frown my eyebrows then look at Chandler, who's forcing a smile towards her.

That's when it hits me.

That's her. That's Janet, Janice, whatever. And that's why he woke up naked in the middle of the night.

I'm pretty sure I'm about to throw up.


	7. Chandler

I hate my job.

There are so many reasons to hate my job. It's dull, it's soul-crushing, I'm embarrassed to talk about it to people.

Most of all, I have a terrible boss. And today, more than ever, I really hate my job.

Because the terrible boss at my terrible job dragged me at a terrible bar, and got us drunk to celebrate last semester's numbers.

Fate wanted me, on last night of all nights, to run into Janice again, while feeling sad and bored and drunk.

It makes for a dangerous cocktail.

What happened after that is still a blur. Janice made me one of her speeches, about how we're fated, and how our love is written in the stars or something like that, because we keep running into each other. And I thought to myself, if that is my fate, God must really hate me.

Next thing I knew, we were taking a cab to my new apartment which she insisted on visiting, and we ended up in my room having sex.

It's usually hard to say no to Janice, because she is so earnest, and it's harder when you have as little sex as I do.

But in the morning, I felt like crap. I knew one thing for certain, this was a mistake.

It's dawning on me when I see Janice making pancakes in the kitchen and I turn to find Monica, dismayed; or so I think. I feel like the worst person on earth.

I don't know why exactly Monica looked so disappointed, I'm guessing it's not because there is a stranger using her kitchen―how Janice is still alive is a mystery.

Monica and I are friends, we're getting along nicely, and we're turning into perfect roommates.

We'll never be anything more than that. For starters, she's so out of my league, I am hardly a blip in her radar.

She's a neat freak perfectionist and I'm a mess. She goes on runs at 6 AM in the morning and that goes against everything I stand for.

We would never make sense together, not on planet earth.

So why do I still feel like I betrayed her?

I force a smile and sit at the counter. I keep silent while Janice is being Janice, as overbearing as ever, reminiscing about our past and raving about our reunion―and I cringe inside.

Whether it's my rebellion against fate and the universe, or a remnant of self-esteem, or the guilt of letting Monica down, I realize I have to end things with Janice.

As soon as possible.

I drink my coffee when Monica comes out of her room again, this time ready to go to work. She doesn't say a word to me, and lands a hand for Janice to shake. "You must be Janice, nice to meet you."

Janice raises an eyebrow. Monica is stoic.

"Nice to meet you …?"

"Monica."

Silence follows. Awkward, thick silence.

Well, what do you know, God _does_ hate me.

Monica's eyes darts between me and Janice. "Okay, have a nice day you two, together. If you have plans, I mean. Or just a nice day, each one of you, separately, if …" she stammers and looks down. "I'll be back after my shift. Chandler―"

"I'll clean the kitchen, don't worry."

She smiles, still uncomfortable, and waves as she leaves. "Right. Okay. Bye."

Janice turns to me, giving me a cheeky grin after Monica leaves. "You didn't tell me your roommate looks like _that_."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I grumble, eating one of the pancakes. I have to break up with her, but a guy's gotta eat …

"Oh, Chandler, Chandler, Chandler."

God, that voice. I really need to break up with her.

"Sweet Chandler. You can admit she's hot. I know I have nothing to worry about."

Oh, this will be painful.

I put down the pancake and take a deep breath. "Janice, I―"

She looks at me expectantly and I'm about to give up.

_Don't back down now._

_Do it._

_Do it._

_Do it now._

"I … I don't think this is going to work," I finally utter and my face immediately scrunches up.

Her jaw drops to the floor. "What do you mean?" She starts to wave her hands at her face, as if she's hyperventilating.

"Us. It's unfair to you, I don't want to give you false expectations. You're a … nice person. In fact, you're great. You're so great, you deserve better than me," I take a pause, nervously chuckling and gesticulating to get my message across. "It's not you, it's me."

"Oh please, don't give me that pathetic excuse!"

"I'm sorry, Janice. I don't know what to say."

"You're in love with your roommate?"

"What? WHAT? That is … ridiculous. Why would I be in love with Monica, she's way too … she's and I'm … What makes you think that?"

"I didn't think that but now I do."

"It has nothing to do with her, I swear."

Janice starts to pack her bag and her coat, making sure to take the pancakes with her.

I get it, I sure don't deserve pancakes right now.

"You know what, Chandler? When she dumps you and you end up homeless, don't come crawling back to me."

* * *

I barely moved all morning. Janice's words are sticking in my head. The TV is turned on but I'm not paying attention, ruminating them instead.

Damn poisonous words.

I am not in love with Monica, it _is_ a ridiculous thought.

I am not in love with Janice too, of that, I am unfortunately sure. I wish I was. Life would be so much simpler if the woman I want is the same woman who wants me.

Do I want Monica?

Maybe. Probably.

But who wouldn't want her?

I sigh and turn my head when I hear the sound of the door opening. It's Monica, back from her shift.

She stops in her steps, scanning the apartment. "Is your girlfriend still here?"

I slump my shoulders and roll my eyes. "She's not my girlfriend."

"Chandler, I don't care whether she's your girlfriend or not. Next time, warn me when you have a girl over, you know? I thought that didn't need to be said."

"Sorry about that."

She takes a few steps until she reaches the couch. "And I don't want you to walk to the bathroom … _naked_."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Don't say it so disgustingly."

She smirks and huffs at me. "You don't see me walking around naked in the apartment, do you?"

"I wouldn't mind it."

She picks up a pillow and throws it at me. "Pig."

I can't help but laugh. "Oh, come on. I'm just joking."

"So, should I expect you to bring over a lot of … _girlfriends_ around? Because … then, we should really set some rules."

"What? Like socks on doorknobs?" I say in a mocking tone.

"Ha, ha. No, but don't you think we should talk about it? If you have a _girlfriend_ ―"

Her voice makes me wince. "Monica, stop saying that. She's not a girlfriend."

Monica crosses her arms. "She was making you pancakes in the morning. That's what a girlfriend does."

"I thought you didn't care if she was my girlfriend or not."

"I don't," she says defensively and I wiggle my eyebrows at her. "I don't!" she repeats. "I just didn't think you were the kind to be sleeping around, that's all."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Mon. I don't sleep around but I'm messed up, ok? I can't explain why I do the things that I do half the time. I'm not sleeping around with Janice … It's … You wouldn't understand."

She groans, frustrated. "Why?"

"Because! I have many, many issues. I'm desperate and hopeless and I screw up everything. You wouldn't understand because you're Miss Perfect but that's not me. You better get used to being let down."

"I'm not perfect, and you're not messed up. I wish you could explain why you're with a woman you don't consider a girlfriend but you still sleep with?" she says then her eyes go wide. "You know what? Even if you were messed up, I can fix you!"

"Monica, I'm not a pet project for you to―"

Monica tilts her head to the side. "What?"

"Oh, come on. Don't you see what you're doing? This whole savior complex of yours … it distracts you from God knows why … but my problems are not yours to fix."

I didn't try to be mean, but her insistence on solving every little problem, on having some kind of all-knowing God power, can be so grating … as if I am a hard-to-clean stain on a white shirt.

Her head drops in defeat, and now I feel like a jerk. Which I am anyway.

Which is why she shouldn't try to fix me.

"Savior complex?" she asks rhetorically. "I'm trying to do something nice for you."

"I'm not saying that to offend you. I'm saying that for your own sake. You can't help yourself I know, it's a compulsive need but I'm a lost cause, a waste of time. The last thing I need is someone judging me for it."

I realize each time I speak, I make it worse. But it's true. People try to fix me, realize they can't, then they leave. I don't want that to happen with Monica.

"You know what, Chandler?" Her jaw is tight, her voice is flat. "Since you're so observant, maybe you should pick a job to make good use of your talents instead of that boring job you hate."

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

She groans, turns and leaves, slamming the door on her way out.

I sigh.

A breakup with the girlfriend I don't want and a fight with the roommate I want. Well done, Bing. You're on a roll.

* * *

Monica effectively disappeared for the rest of the day. As much as I enjoy pitying myself for hours, I can't take it anymore so I go downstairs at the bar to find Ross, perched at a stool.

I walk up to him. "Hey, where's Carol?"

"She went to the gym. Where is Monica?"

"I don't know where Monica is. Why would I know where Monica is!"

Ross gives me a confused look. "Uh, cause she's your roommate? Is everything okay between you two?"

"Yeah, yeah, we just …" I stop myself, realizing nothing good would come out from a conversation about why I had a fight with his little sister. "I broke up with Janice."

He affectionately gives me a light punch on my shoulder. "Good for you, man."

"Yeah?"

"Chandler, all you do when you're with her is complain about her voice, her clinginess … Wait, are you sad?"

"No, not really. I got drunk and slept with her, but … you're right. I guess the whole thing wasn't very healthy," I order a drink then turn to Ross again. "I think your sister wasn't very happy with me when she found out … about me and Janice."

"That's Monica for you. She just expects a lot from people. Must mean she likes you."

My eyes shoot up in surprise. "You think?"

"Yeah. Look, Chandler, Monica is not an easy person, she's _a lot,"_ he says widening his eyes to make his point."Before you, she interviewed dozens of people to be her roommate, she didn't vet any of them and they all ran for the hills anyway. You're … cohabitating and if she's nagging you about things, it's because she's more than willing to live with you and she cares about you."

"I don't mind the nagging." I drop my head, nursing my drink, and a smile tugs at my lips as I think about how intense she gets with these things. She _is_ a compulsive fixer and I am her toughest project ever, but I don't want to be a burden on her. She deserves better than that, as much as I enjoy the attention.

"I like that someone is taking care of me," I admit to him.

It's hard to deny. It's the upside of having a roommate like Monica. I enjoy that she goes as far as making my bed "the right way" or doing my laundry with her homemade detergent, and I enjoy going home to delicious smells waiting for me. No one's ever done that for me before.

I don't know how she does it on top of working all day at the restaurant. I've never met anyone with so much energy and determination.

I've never met anyone like her.

"Hey now, you need to take care of her too. She's my little sister and if anyone causes her any unhappiness of any kind, I will kick their ass," Ross says seriously.

I laugh then pause at his inflexible look. "Oh, you're serious."

"Yes, I am. I can kick _your_ ass!"

"Okay, Ross," I respond but he's still suspicious of me. "I said okay! I will take care of her, not sure how or whether she needs it, but I will."

"Good, because she's going on this date with that wine guy from her restaurant and I don't have a good feeling about him. Would you keep an eye on her?"

_A date?_

"A date?"

"Yes. Didn't she talk to you about him? Paul, The Wine Guy?"

_Please, not a date._

"Yeah, she did … But I didn't think she was into him."

"I didn't either, but she changed her mind."

The worst thing about having a female roommate like Monica is that she would, naturally, have tons of dates.

Oh, God.

She's going on a date.


	8. Monica

"So, you're going on a date, huh?"

Chandler is sitting on the couch reading a book as I come out of my bedroom, wearing a white top with a scoop neck and a pair of jeans.

"Yes, a guy from the restaurant asked me out. I figured it's time to stop caring too much about other people and have fun … for myself."

It's bitter and petty, I realize that, but ever since Chandler got mad at me for getting mad at him about his girlfriend-not-really-a-girlfriend Janice, I've been giving him the cold shoulder treatment. It's not that I want to, being weird with Chandler makes me feel weird. We had reached an easiness in our relationship previously to that cursed night, and I miss it.

"Right," is all he responds. He closes the book then gets up and looks expectantly at me. I stop and wait. Maybe he'll apologize? Maybe he'll say something, anything …

"That's Paul from your restaurant? The wine guy?" he follows up.

I'm surprised he remembers him. "Yes."

"Cool."

_Cool?_ That's not what I wanted him to say!

"Cool," I shoot back. I grab my bag and walk towards the door, I look back to find Chandler still standing, shuffling his feet with his hands in his pockets.

"He's taking me to Pete's Tavern, I shouldn't be too late."

He looks up at me surprised, and I can finally see his features soften up. It's a bit of an olive branch, because I can't stay _that_ mad at him, not really, and I don't want him to think this is a revenge date.

"All right, have fun."

I nod and head to the door. I close it behind me then lean against it. For about ten seconds, I think about going back inside, canceling this date because it _was_ a revenge date― or at least, a jealousy date. If I'm honest with myself, I'd rather watch a stupid movie with Chandler cuddled on the couch.

It was becoming our Saturday night tradition.

But I'm not sure we'll have traditions anymore.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

No, he was right. I do tend to treat people as projects and focus my energy on them. Chandler isn't a project though, he's my friend. Possibly my best friend. Whether I want it or not, he reads me better than anyone.

We're adults. Janice being his girlfriend or not isn't any of my business.

It's time to move on from the irresponsible crush.

* * *

Paul is nothing like Chandler, and for some reason, that realization is crippling me as we enjoy a fine dinner. I shouldn't be surprised, Paul is older, mature, blond.

And he's going on and on about his divorce.

"It was really hard on me," Paul tells me and I stay silent. A tiny voice reminds me that Chandler would have made some jokes following a statement like that, because he hates bringing the mood down and would always make sure to make me laugh―especially when talking about his worst childhood or love life memories.

I shake my head.

Why am I comparing Paul to Chandler right now?

Probably for the same reason I've been thinking about Chandler the past few weeks … While he's been sleeping with another woman.

With a deep breath, I push all that aside. I've decided to give Paul a chance and comparing him to a sticky-like-glue crush isn't the best way to do that.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Yes," I answer quickly.

He leans forward and looks directly at me, very serious. "I never told anyone about this, it's a little … personal, but I feel like I can trust you."

That's nice to hear. He's successfully endearing himself to me.

"You can tell me."

"It's been a long time since I've been … intimate with someone."

Oh. That is personal.

"How long?"

"Two years."

"Two years?"

"Are you freaked out? I understand if you don't want to see me ever again, it's embarrassing …"

"It's not," I cut him off. My hand reaches his to reassure him and I smile sympathetically at him. He smiles back and the moment feels nice.

I can't remain indifferent to the pain and sadness I catch in his eyes.

Maybe it's true, maybe I just like fixing people.

* * *

When I wake up in his apartment late the next morning, Paul is gone.

It must be the clarity of the morning but I know why I insisted we go to his place instead of mine.

Chandler.

I sigh to myself and turn to find a little note on Paul's pillow.

_Early shift at the restaurant. Let's keep this under wraps at work. See you ― Paul._

I ponder whether I should go back to the apartment, but instead, I dress up and head to the restaurant.

Once I get there, I enter the locker room and I find one of my coworkers, Frannie, all tan as she got back from her vacation.

"Hey Frannie, welcome back. How was Florida?"

Frannie smiles and is about to answer when she eyes me suspiciously. "You look different … You had sex!"

My jaw drops. "How did you know?"

She smirks at me and crosses her arm. "So, who was it? Was is it that cute roommate of yours?"

My eyes widen and a rush of heat hits my cheeks. "No, that's not―not going to happen."

"Hum," she says, still eyeing me and I know I won't resist for long. So much for trying to keep it under wraps at work.

"You know Paul?"

"Oh, I _know_ Paul." A grin spreads through her face as she looks away with a dreamy expression. "I know him very well."

Her tone concerns me. "How so?"

"Look, I'm sure you two had fun but Paul … Please, you owe me. I take credit for Paul. He was a monk before me. For two whole years."

I swallow and give her a forced smile as she leaves the room. I'm still in shock because I don't have words in response.

Frannie turns back one last time before closing the door. "Honey, if you're willing to do it with your coworker, you should give your cute roommate a chance."

And with that, she's gone, and I sit down, realizing I've just been played by Paul, and at this moment, my love life flashes before my eyes.

What is wrong with me? Why do I keep attracting Pauls? Why do I fall for such obvious lines?

I get a panicky feeling in my chest so I get out of the dressing and head for the phone. I breathe deeply before punching the number.

His voice answers me. "Hey."

It immediately makes me feel calmer.

"Hey, Chandler, can you come and get me?"

* * *

The whole subway ride home, we are silent. I didn't feel ready yet to talk about my date. He didn't push me.

While we're sitting, he drops his hand and reaches for mine, and I realize it's all I need for now.

We've taken this ride many times before. We usually talk about our day, about what to eat for dinner, about the latest episode of Murphy Brown. It makes a ride on a noisy, dirty, grimy subway a little more fun. But now, in the silence, together, right after the day I've had, I know what matters.

He's here, and his hand in mine is all it takes.

"Are you okay?" he ends up asking me after a while.

I look down at our joined hands then look up at him. "I will be."

He nods with a small smile and I rest my head on his shoulder, as he lets his head fall back against the window behind us.

We reach the apartment, and as we get home, I take off my coat while Chandler reaches for a bottle of water he juggles between his hands.

"Thank you, Chandler."

"Yeah, no problem."

"I think I'll just go to bed, I'm really tired."

"Okay. I―" he starts before stopping as I head to my bedroom. "See you later."

"See you, Chandler."

Later, I lie awake in my bed. It's dark outside and I hadn't come out for the rest of the day. I feel ready to talk about what happened, ready to feel better and lighter, but it's late at night, and there's no one to talk to right now.

Well, there is Chandler, and he is the only person I want to talk to.

He's been that person for quite some time now.

But I can't go to him. It would be unfair, and a little rich. I practically yelled at him for sleeping with Janice. I went to a date with a jerk to spite him, and now I realize how stupid I've been.

I flip to my side, I look into the window as the moonlight cuts through the blinds, listening to the sounds of a New York City day coming to an end; cars passing, a garbage truck slogging through the avenue, people walking and talking on the street.

I keep thinking―not about Paul, not about the restaurant, not about anything other than the other side of my room.

Chandler is the one keeping me up. It's not a crush, it's not irresponsible. It's more than that. I know it now.

And just like in a dream, he appears in the shadows when I hear the door creak and I turn.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hey."

"Awake?"

"It's that or I am talking in my sleep."

He laughs and leans against the doorframe. He's wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and of course, socks. It makes me smile because Chandler's quirky ways always do.

"How come you're not sleeping?" I ask him as I straighten up against the headboard.

He quirks his lips and fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. "You want the truth?"

"Not if it's a disgusting boy thing."

He rolls his eyes. "No," he replies, "I wouldn't tell you about that."

"Okay. I want the truth then."

"I … I wanted to know that you're okay. That you're really, absolutely okay. I don't know what happened. I … You can talk to me, you know? I know you're angry with me, you should be. But, I'm not completely useless. I can be a good listener."

I smile at his bashfulness. I wasn't mad at him. "I don't want to keep you up."

"I'm already up."

Chandler's eyes are so full of compassion and kindness, it warms my whole soul. I pat my bed. His lips lift up a little as an answer.

He sits up beside me.

He is a good listener, and I tell him everything.

"Monica, I'm so sorry," he says when I tell him about what Frannie at work revealed to me, my voice almost breaking.

I look up in surprise. He doesn't judge, he doesn't make a joke. His expression is soft and empathic.

And I feel like an idiot for going out with Paul, when Chandler was there all along, when Chandler, and I know now, would never hurt me like the Pauls of the world do.

That newfound awareness pushes the tears to fall on my face, which I wipe with the sleeves of my shirt. "I'm so stupid."

"Hey," he says, sounding almost mad with me for saying it. "Stop that. He's a jerk, I'm sorry you had to go through that."

He steps closer to me and wraps me up in a hug. I melt into his arms and bury my head in his shirt.

"God, this is so embarrassing. I'm sorry for vomiting my feelings on you," I say, taking a deep breath to gather myself.

"It's okay."

"I wish I was more like you," I suddenly say. Chandler's face looks like I just slapped him.

"What?" he asks. "Why would anyone wish they were more like me?"

I tilt my head in disapproval. "You just seem to be able to shut things off."

"That's not a good thing," he says then looks intently at me. "Don't ever apologize for wearing your emotions on your sleeve, okay? It's what makes you …" he pauses, looking for the right words. "One of the most amazing people I've ever met."

I smile a rueful grin, and then he lowers himself to my bed, I catch my breath. He lies on top of the sheets and I'm under them.

We're lying in the same bed, in my bedroom, late at night.

He's inches away.

But we're still dressed. And we're still just two friends, comforting each other. I can still rationalize that part, not get ahead of myself.

Even if it feels like everything is right in the world again. Because he's there.

Even if I feel ten times better than I did just a few minutes ago. Because of him.

A sheet separates us. Clothes and a few centimeters separate us.

But it's night and the moonlight is shining on us like a revelation.

I can't stop the aching in my chest. I can't lie to myself anymore.

"I've been thinking about what you told me, about Janice," he says all of a sudden, his tone introspective, his voice low, and it's taking my breath away. "You were right, I shouldn't have strung her along. I should be honest with myself and my emotions."

He shifts away from me a little and I turn to find him staring at the ceiling.

"I broke up with her. For good."

I swallow. I wonder where this could go. I prop my head on my hand, and I simply stare at him, mesmerized. This guy who can be so childish and ridiculous can also be so honest and kind and more sensitive than anyone I know … He doesn't need to be fixed.

He tilts his head to look at me and smiles. There are barely a few inches between us, the space is endless and barely exists at the same time. It's like an imaginary line, right there, the line of our friendship, or whatever kind of relationship we were entertaining, and the realization hits me that our bond is far deeper than any of us suspected.

Lines not to cross, friendships to preserve, and an apartment to share. They are the only reasons preventing me from kissing him, smelling him, touching him; from resisting the rush and euphoria I feel inside of me.

"I don't want to live a life of regrets, you know?" he says. "Wasting my time on relationships going nowhere. That's what I do, I sabotage myself. I know you see it, and it annoys me that you see it so well."

"It annoys me that you see me so well too."

He laughs then looks again at me. "Is there anything in life you don't want to regret?"

At that moment, I look at his lips and I wonder if he caught that. I am silent, and he looks over at me.

I don't need to say it, it hurts to say anything.

I flip to my side, my back to him, and I scoot closer to him.

He spoons me and we fit, naturally, evidently.

I sigh from contentment and close my eyes listening to the rhythm of his breathing and the beating of his heart, lulling me to sleep.

Will I regret falling in love with my roommate?


	9. Chandler

I fell asleep.

I fell asleep _in_ Monica Geller's bed.

I fell asleep _with_ Monica Geller _in_ Monica Geller's bed.

The realization paralyzes me from the moment I open my eyes to face the pastel pink walls of her room.

I'm awake but it feels as if I'm still dreaming. My arms are wrapped around her, and my hand just happens to be between her breasts.

Then I notice her hand on my hip.

Her hand on my hip is moving and my breath catches. She's awake, I can tell, and I wonder if she's dreaming too or this is the result of her post-date breakdown.

The room is filled with silence and all I can hear is the rhythm of my own heartbeat, drilling, practically deafening; and her breathing, her sharp inhales, her heavy exhales.

She's touching me, stroking me. Her fingers run from my hip alongside my leg.

Then she does the craziest, most unexpected thing to ever happen to me. She presses her backside against me, she pushes herself back lightly and a moan slips out of her lips.

_Ohhhh_ is the first sound she makes, and I'm undone.

I've heard Monica smile, laugh, yell, and these incredible sounds all did things to me, but to hear moan … because―or more like, thanks to me, it sends me to another galaxy.

I surrender.

All these weeks of pent up desire and lust I've kept in check, sometimes successfully, more often with a struggle, they explode and I can't contain them anymore.

"Monica," I whisper, my voice raspy and barely audible.

"Mmm," she murmurs back.

"Turn around."

She turns, and we're facing each other. "Hey," she says with a completely serious look.

I don't have time to respond, I'm pretty sure my brain isn't working anymore.

My hand lands on her cheek. Then I kiss her.

Holy hell. I'm on fire in seconds.

She kisses me back, hard, and I kiss her again, harder. Without holding back.

It's amazing, just the way I dreamed it might be. She kisses me like this is exactly what she needs right now.

Her hands are in my hair, and I don't want to stop. I want to stay here, like this forever. She's the best freaking roommate I've ever had and I want her to be my roommate forever.

"Monica," I say again because I just want to say her name out loud again.

"Chandler," she says to me, and on her lips, I don't hate my name. On her lips, it's the greatest name ever given.

I pull away from her mouth and begin working my way down her sweet, sweet neck. Her hands travel up and down my chest, signaling me to take off my shirt, and I comply, gladly.

She takes off her shirt too, and we face each other again, out of breath.

"You okay with all this?" I ask, my voice tight. I have to know, I need to know she won't regret this, that she's not doing this just because of a crappy date.

She stares up at me with dazed eyes. "I'm okay with all this," she says, her voice as sure as my desire for her.

I sigh, relieved. I might have died on the spot if I couldn't kiss her again.

I lean to kiss her and I stop before reaching her lips. I can't help but stare into her eyes and say what I've longed to tell her for some time now. "I want you so much."

It's not poetry and I'm no Shakespeare, but I don't care. It's what my gut tells me, it's the truth in its plainest, simplest form.

"I want you too, Chandler," she says.

Those words are my greatest wishes coming true, to reach the unattainable, to experience unspeakable pleasure.

I don't think about the consequences, because I can only think of her. I can only focus on how she's wrapped around me, silently telling me, _Deeper_ ; on how she's screaming into my ear and how I can feel her smiling against my skin afterward.

To hell with consequences.

* * *

I wake up again.

Still in Monica Geller's bed.

I turn on my side, she's not there. It's probably for the best, I already want to do it again.

I get up and put on my boxers and the t-shirt I so haphazardly took off a few hours earlier. When I came into her room, I wanted to talk to her, comfort her. I never expected this to happen. I still can't quite believe it.

Before I open the door, I take a moment. All I want is to kiss her again, but I have no idea what we're supposed to say or do or act after that wonderful, crazy, unbelievable morning.

Was it a one-time thing? Was it just sex? A "roomies with benefits" kind of pact?

Do I just bump into her and say "hi" and ask her to refill the ice tray like nothing ever happened?

I don't think I'm capable of such decisions when my knees still feel weak. I take a deep breath and gather whatever little courage I have to open the door.

She's standing in the kitchen. I stop.

And stare.

And grin.

She's wearing her apron over a tank top and shorts, her hair is twisted in a bun with a chopstick stabbed through it, attending to a meal on the stovetop.

It's an amazing, enticing vision. My stomach takes an anxious leap.

She looks up, finally, and smiles shyly. "Hey, I thought we'd have lunch together if you don't have any plans ..."

"Yeah, I mean no. No, I don't have plans. Yes, I'll have lunch … together."

My throat tightens and awkwardness fills the air. "I'll hop in the shower," I add and head straight to the bathroom.

I take a quick, _cold_ shower to get a hold of myself.

On the one hand, sex was great. Sex with Monica was incredible. On the other hand, it changes things. I enjoyed the sex, but nothing scares me more than getting rejected by her, or losing her.

I'm still struggling with the images of her flesh interrupting my internal turmoil as I come out of the shower. I realize she left fresh clothes and towels ready for me, and it hits me again, this amazing woman had sex with me.

She's sitting at the table when I join her, and all I can manage is a pathetic "So."

She laughs. "So."

"You good?"

She smiles again. "I'm good." She puts a plate on my side of the table. "I made Mac and Cheese."

I blink at her. "You did?"

"Yeah. It just came to my mind … while thinking about us, how we met and you know, _now_."

I clear my throat and nod, I'm taken by surprise. All I can think about is the memory of her words this morning while I was thrusting into her―like no memory existed or mattered before that.

"And we're okay, _now_?"

"I think so," she responds then frowns. "I'm not sure what we are."

"Well, I guess we're roommates who are friends … who had sex once," I say tentatively to gauge her reaction.

"Once," she repeats, deep in thought. She then looks at me. "Right, maybe we needed to release some … tension between us." She waves her hand from her to me and back.

I'm pretty sure I'm blushing and my eyes are wide, which might explain why I whisper for some reason, "You mean, sex-u-al tension?"

My uneasiness at least seems to amuse her.

She chuckles. "Things won't be awkward between us?"

I rush to reassure her. "Things will never be awkward between us, Mon. With our track record, we can survive anything."

I understand her relief as she slightly exhales then smiles at me. I do believe we can survive anything, including losing the tip of a toe and one-time sex.

"Good," she says again then pauses. I hear her inhale like she's going to speak but then she keeps quiet and the silence stretches for five, ten, fifteen palpitating seconds. Her silence makes all of my insecurity bubbles rise to the surface.

I knew at the time that sex between roommates/friends wasn't the brightest idea, but I don't want her to _regret_ it, either.

I realize now the fallout can be devastating but I don't regret anything.

"The thing is," she begins and I'm hanging on every word, intonation, facial expression at this point. "What happens if … the sex-u-al tension isn't defused?"

My eyes go wide as I see her lips quirk up, a flush of color deepening along the tops of her cheeks.

I swallow hard. "We would need to remedy that, I suppose."

My imagination goes overdrive until I hear a vibration. She looks down at her beeper then stands up.

"I have to go for my shift. Are you free tonight?"

I feel like I need to pinch myself. "I'll be here, waiting," I say without realizing how little I'm trying to hide my excitement.

"Great. I'll see you tonight and we can … talk."

I stand up and join her by the door after she reaches for her purse.

"Yeah, tonight."

We stay there for a moment, standing and looking at each other.

"I have to go," she says, almost apologizing.

I nod and open the door for her, we never break eye contact somehow, both enthralled by the potential of our "roomies with benefits until we get it out of our system" deal.

I take my time to close the door after her, then lean against it to take a deep breath, closing my eyes, trying to get a hold of my emotions.

I can't believe this is happening to me.

Suddenly I hear chatter that brings me out of my trance. I open the door again and I'm surprised to find the door to the apartment across the hall open.

Then I register that Monica is talking to someone holding a box.

"Need some help with that?" Monica asks the guy.

"No thanks, I got it," he replies, then almost drops the box, Monica rushes to help him and holds him by his waist.

"Wow, thanks," he says, then finally drops the box and turns, looking at me.

"Hey there, I'm Joey Tribbiani. Just moved across the hall."

I have a million questions, but at this moment, I curse the universe.

Of course the moment I have sex with my beautiful, sexy, amazing roommate, a hot guy moves across the hall, wowing her with gelled her and strong arms.

Just my luck.


	10. Monica

I close the door and take a deep breath, not even trying to get rid of the stupid grin on my face.

I slept with Chandler.

I was the one who initiated things, got him all hot and bothered and he followed through.

And it was amazing.

Chandler The Lover, is nothing like Chandler The Roommate.

Chandler, The Roommate is cute, annoying sometimes, sloppy often.

But Chandler The Lover? He's cute _and_ hot, he's cute-hot, he's take-charge, and he left no stone unturned, metaphorically speaking.

I don't know what it really meant for him, but I know I had to bite my tongue a few times to avoid saying anything revealing about how I feel about him. How I already felt about him _Before Sex_ and how my feelings are reaching a dangerous level now.

So I don't tell him this morning that it's never been this good, that when I stopped to look into his eyes I saw everything that seemingly struck me out of the blue, but had been there all along if I'd stopped to notice, and finally noticed last night when he came to the restaurant to get me home, asking no questions, then to my room to offer words of comfort. Reading me like a book.

I never could imagine in a million years he would be so attuned to my feelings.

I knew then. He's the man that I want.

I slept with my roommate, but deep in my heart, I know I made love to the man I'm falling in love with.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply before going down the stairs when the door to the apartment next door suddenly swings open.

A young man appears, and his presence makes me realize there were boxes in front of the door, but I was too preoccupied with a certain someone to pay close attention to my surroundings.

And that guy waves hello at me, flashes me a smile straight out of a toothpaste commercial while checking me out, up and down. Unscrupulously.

In other circumstances, I might have been affected by his obvious attractiveness, his tight shirt underlining his muscles and overall Don Juan looks, but these aren't normal circumstances. I still have endorphins rushing through my brain, due to one guy and one guy only, sharing my apartment.

Still, Don Juan isn't discouraged and starts lifting a box while looking at me, and he almost falls. Out of politeness, I offer my help which he declines, preferring to show off probably.

That's when Chandler makes his presence known.

Don Juan drops the box then extends his hand. "Hey there, I'm Joey Tribbiani. Just moved across the hall."

I shake his hand. "Hi, I'm Monica. Monica Geller, I live next door. Welcome to the building."

I turn to look at Chandler, who doesn't seem thrilled at all.

"How did you get this apartment?" Chandler suddenly says, in an unusual shrill voice.

I give him a look. "Chandler, don't be rude."

"I don't understand, this apartment was illegally sublet, they wouldn't let me move in! How did you do it?"

Joey frowns his eyes and looks incredulously at me. Frankly, Chandler is acting a little crazy, I can't blame him.

"Answered an ad on the paper," he answers with a shrug.

I move to Chandler and pat him on the chest. "Chandler, please let it go. You just had sex with your roommate, can't you be a little grateful?" I whisper to his ear and he finally relaxes.

"Okay, fine. Welcome, I guess. I'm Chandler."

They finally shake hands, in that weird, man-to-man thing that guys do, as I look at my watch to make sure I'm not running late for my shift.

"So you two are the couple next door. I hope you don't make too much noise at night." Joey smiles, a rueful little grin.

I realize we do look like a couple since we're standing very close to each other and I was comforting him with my arm over his waist.

Following his remark, we both take a step away, then glance at each other as if trying to decipher what that reaction meant.

"We're roommates," Chandler jumps in. "Roomies. Bunkmates. Bedfellows," he follows in an old-timey accent. I nudge him and he clears his throat. "We live together."

Another sly grin appears on Joey's face. "Is there something else you do together?"

I look away and Chandler tenses.

"Not to my knowledge, no," Chandler says.

I am a little annoyed by his answer but then again, we never established what kind of relationship this is other than deciding to do it all over again tonight.

Or talk it over. Or both.

It's an unconvincing denial, but Joey seems to buy it.

"Oh, I get it. You're―" he trails off, looking at Chandler when a realization emerges on his face. "Does that mean you're single, Monica?"

He _is_ Don Juan.

Surprised, I can only smile politely as Chandler takes a step forward to stand in front of me―adopting a weird aggressive posture facing Joey.

"She's my best friend's sister, so by extension, she's like my sister. Like my little sister, so you know the rules."

_Little sister_? _The rules?_ What the hell?

"Oh, dude, sorry about that."

I roll my eyes and decide I can't be near these two cavemen anymore. "I have to go to work."

"See you tonight, sis?" Chanler jokes, and I can't believe he thought that was a good set of words to utter right now.

Ugh, that was most definitely Chandler The Roommate.

"Yeah, tonight," I answer. I look over at Joey and he's still smirking. Is he constantly in perv-mode?

It's my turn to clear my throat. "Tonight, for laundry night."

"Laundry night?" Chandler questions.

"Yes, our weekly laundry night. You haven't forgotten, have you, Bing?" I punch him lightly like a _bro_ would and he winces.

"Ouch! No, I haven't. _Laundry_. Can't wait, Roomie."

"Wait, you two do laundry together?"

Maybe we're taking it too far.

"Yes, we do," Chandler says. "She loves laundry and she's an excellent folder."

Joey ponders his answer then ends up nodding and buying it again, somehow. We got lucky.

I exhale in relief. "Okay, I'm going. Welcome again, Joey."

He waves at me, and I hear him talk to Chandler as I go down the stairs.

"You lucky bastard. I want a hot roommate too!"

* * *

The prospect of our "laundry night" talk― okay, more accurately, laundry night sex―blocks out any hope of coherent thought while I'm at work.

The whole "little sister rule" reminds me that Chandler, for all his great qualities, and there are many, in and out of bed, is still a dude in his twenties; with the immaturity and lack of serious relationship experience that come with it.

And he's still my roommate.

Having one-time sex is one thing, a fully-fledged relationship with an immature roommate? Utopia.

I am convinced dating a roommate is always a bad idea. No matter how great the sex is, so much more is at risk: a friendship, an apartment in New York.

Every time I tried to picture it, it led inevitably to the worst-case scenario. I couldn't shake the pessimist in me.

Then why can't I stop looking at my watch every five minutes? I was never a clock-watcher at work, impatiently waiting for the end of my shift. I liked my job, I loved being a sous-chef at Iridium.

But today, I can't wait for my shift to be over so that I can see him … Just being with him is exciting. That shouldn't be the case, who's excited to see the roommate they live with 24/7?

I am so screwed.

Whatever our arrangement is―will be―one thing is certain. I can't freak him out and risk losing him. I want him but I need him as a roommate, as a friend even more.

* * *

It's 7 p.m. when I get home.

I pause for a moment before opening the door.

I hear noises. Unusual noises.

My curiosity trumps my nervousness, and I open the apartment to find three guys sitting on the couch in front of the TV.

"Hello," I say as I drop my keys on the counter,

They turn around and Ross is the first one to get up, walking to give me a quick hug.

"Hey, Mon. I met your new neighbor."

Joey turns his head, beer in his hand, waves it at me and turns again to the TV. I glance at Chandler, who's smiling softly at me, but I can read the slight worry in his eyes.

I didn't expect Ross to show up tonight.

I also didn't expect Joey to get so chummy with both my roommate and my brother.

"Hey, Joey, please make yourself comfortable," I say sarcastically. He lifts his beer at me and I shake my head.

I turn to my brother. "I didn't know you were coming, I didn't have time to make dinner."

"It's ok. I got big news and I couldn't wait to share it with you."

My brother is sporting the goofiest grin in the entire world so this should be good.

The guys turn around expectantly.

"I'm going to propose to Carol."

My eyes grow big and I squeal. I hug him. "Ross, that's amazing!"

"Finally!" Chandler says.

"Bummer," Joey whispers.

"Yeah, I got the ring. I got a reservation tomorrow night at her favorite restaurant … It's going to be great," he pauses. "I'm a little nervous."

"You two are crazy about each other, she'll say yes," I reassure him.

"I hope so. I thought I could hang out with you guys tonight to relax a little."

_Oh._

How are we going to have our _laundry arrangement_ with Neighbor Joey and Brother Ross around?

I look at Chandler and realize he's thinking the same thing.

He sniffs his shirt while looking at me, and it takes me a moment to realize what he means … laundry.

Yes! Laundry!

Such a simple, elegant solution. He's so smart.

"Well, you can hang out here ... I have to do my laundry. I'm out of clean towels."

I tilt my head toward Chandler, signaling him to follow my lead.

He stands up and sniffs his shirt exaggeratedly in front of them. "Yep, I need to do my laundry too."

"Wait a minute," Ross says. "You do laundry together? That's a little weird."

"I won't let him touch my stuff," I tell Ross, without thinking.

He scrunches up his face in disgust. "Gross. Why would you let me picture that?"

"We're doing our laundry separately. Just side by side."

"Plus, she's an excellent folder," Chandler says and everyone looks at him. "I don't know why I said that."

"Ross, there are leftovers in the fridge. Joey, there's plenty of beer."

"Your sister is awesome," Joey tells Ross, who's still less than thrilled at the prospect of me and Chandler doing laundry together.

He goes to him. "Don't touch my sister's underwear."

Chandler goes pale. "I won't touch your sister," he flusters, "or anything she owns or wears or touches."

"Ross, can you relax now?" I warn him.

"Die Hard is on!" Joey yells all of the sudden at the TV, Ross looks at him and gets very excited.

"Die Hard!"

Chandler makes a tempted step towards the TV, and I pull him back by his shirt.

"Chandler!"

"Oh, sorry. Laundry, of course. Die Hard, yuck."

* * *

We go downstairs to the laundry room in the building. Thankfully, there's no one else there. As soon as he closes the door behind us and we put down our baskets, Chandler picks me up and sits me on one of the washers.

I yelp and laugh. "Chandler!"

I look at him and I'm struck by the look of lust and desire in his eyes.

His hands are on my wrists, he lifts mine above my head then kisses me. His mouth devours mine like it was the best dessert served at a high-class restaurant. His tongue finds my upper lip, flicking twice until I gasp, and his tongue slides inside my mouth, tangling with mine, and I forget that we're friends or roommates or our names and remember only that he is man and I am woman and kissing is what we were meant to do.

I could kiss him for the rest of my life.

I can't help but think if we're making a mistake, it's the best mistake ever made in history because I've never experienced this kind of chemistry in my life.

Our lips finally separate.

"Better than Die Hard?" I tease.

"Much better," he says, giving me another quick peck. "I think I'll be the one dying hard."

I roll my eyes without stopping the smile off my face. "You know, I actually need to do laundry."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"Of course. Plus, it will give us a chance to talk."

I look at him, trying to gauge his emotions or read his mind or spot a sign. "Right. Talking. Good."

We sort our respective pile of clothes as I smile at Chandler when I hand him my high-efficiency detergent that I usually hide, to use instead of his off-brand detergent.

We load the washers and we sit.

"So how would this work?" Chandler asks.

"I don't know. It was both our idea, you know. Haven't you thought about the details all day?"

"Monica, all I could think about was the possibility I could have mindblowing sex again with my hot roommate. Everything else is just … details."

I smirk, but I could still feel my cheeks heat up. I knew the sex was good for him too, but _mindblowing_ … It's nice to know we felt the same things.

"Well," I say, licking my lips, the images from our tryst still flooding my mind, "How about the first rule is … there are no rules?"

Chandler purses his lips then laughs while squeezing his eyes. When I hit him lightly on the arm, he finally stopped. "Sorry I was distracted by … hell freezing over! Where are you talking about? You love rules."

"I know." I sigh. "But maybe that's why this needs to be different. The most important thing is that we don't want to ruin our friendship, do we?"

"No, we don't," he answers quickly.

"Let's say … there's no limit on how many times we can … do it. We stop when it stops being fun. Once the itch is scratched. Uncomplicated and fun."

"I'm all for the unlimited sex, trust me," he says, with a smirk. "Sex in a drawer. Friendship in a separate drawer."

"Exactly. And we go back to being friends when we're done."

"Get it out of our system."

I square my shoulders and give him my best show of confidence. "We are on the same page, then."

He nods, a little thoughtful.

Of course, he doesn't need to know I'm stupidly falling for him. I'll just have to stop myself from falling further. This arrangement won't need to be more than a sweet little tryst with my … cute-hot, amazing in bed, best friend roommate.

I'm tossing out in the trash all those strange sensations in my chest. It's just sex and friendship, and nothing more.

"Is this an exclusive thing?" he asks.

"I'm thinking …" I pause to see how he'll react to my proposition. "It's just us, for as long as we're doing this … but when we're done, we can go on with our lives."

"Okay," he says simply.

I twist my mouth as I start to think about the logistics. "Maybe we need some kind of safe word."

"What?" Chandler's eyes go wide. "Geller, what kind of kinky things are you into?" he goes on, wiggling his eyebrows. "Cause I'm adventurous and willing to try but nothing too―"

"Stop that!" I say, rolling my eyes. "Maybe not a safe word, but a signal … if we're stuck like tonight."

He shrugs. "Fine. What is it?"

I tap my fingers against my chin, thinking until an idea springs to mind. "Laundry. Codeword for … the deal."

"Okay, anything else?" he says, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

"You have to keep your sheets clean. Otherwise, it's always going to be my bed."

"I see you've already abandoned your 'no rules' rule."

"Take it or leave it, Bing."

"Fine. I'll take it. You need to tell me where you hide your fancy detergent then."

I smile. "Okay."

He smiles back. "Okay."

A short moment of silence follows, we glance at each other.

"When do we start?" Chandler asks.

"Well, we can't tonight because… Ross."

"How about here?" Chandler stands up, already unbuttoning his shirt.

"Chandler! Anyone could walk in on us. Let's not traumatize our neighbors."

"Fine. Tomorrow?"

"Ross will propose to Carol, they'll probably come to the apartment to celebrate," I say and Chandler looks disappointed.

"Hey, you have an afternoon shift tomorrow, right?"

I nod, he remembers my schedule. The strange sensation is back in my chest.

"I can get away from work at lunch," he says in a suggestive tone.

"Like … a nooner?" I whisper in a scandalized tone.

"Yes, Miss Geller. Will you be available for a meeting at noon?"

"I will be available, Mr. Bing."

We laugh as Chandler helps me stand up and we high five. I'm relieved to see nothing has changed, we bicker and we tease each other.

Nothing feels different, nothing feels weird.

Except I can't wait for him to sneak out of work tomorrow.

"I can't believe Ross is going to get married," he says when I retrieve my clothes from the washer to put in the dryer.

"I know. But it was about time. Ross and Carol have been together forever now."

"Yeah, I guess they've been pretty serious since college. It's hard to think of a time they weren't together. I just … you know, I've never witnessed a marriage or a relationship working out around me. Deep down, I didn't expect theirs to work out."

I look at him, thoughtful, and I'm taken aback. Chandler doesn't believe in relationships working out.

Or marriage.

"Sometimes it works out."

He doesn't say anything to that.

Yesterday was more than just sex.

But from now on … it can't be.


	11. Chandler

In the days that followed what I decided to call The Laundry Agreement of 1992, I kept waiting for things to turn weird with Monica and me.

I waited for it to happen when we bickered the next morning about which towel I'm authorized to use.

I waited for it when she caught me humming a tune from _Cats_ in the shower.

I waited for it when she went on a rant about the other sous-chef at her restaurant who's "slower than cold molasses" and messing up her system.

But each time, it simply took a moment, a look shared and my fears would all but subside.

And as I reach for the cereals, sitting at the kitchen table, at an impossibly early hour before she leaves for work, and right after a few nocturnal laundry sessions―she comes from behind and kisses me goodbye on the lips.

"I'm free tonight at 5. Can you make it?" she asks.

"Well, technically I work till 6. Let me see, input some meaningless numbers until 6 or have sex at 5 … Now, that's a choice, Sophie," I say, looking in the distance. Then I shake my head and grin at her. "Let's go with the sex. I will make it."

She smiles at me before leaving.

I eat my cereal and it hits me. I feel ridiculously content.

No, more than content. Happy.

I can't believe we haven't been doing this the whole time.

* * *

After our earlier 5 p.m. session, we head with Joey to a bar downtown, to celebrate Ross and Carol's engagement announcement.

We're only there for five minutes that Joey already excuses himself from our booth to meet up with some girl he picked from the crowd with surgical precision.

I bring the drinks to our table and sit beside Monica. We give each other a look as we notice that the newly engaged couple in front of us are paying practically no attention to us.

Monica chugs the Martini drink, and I raise my eyebrows at her.

"What's the rush, champ?" I ask her.

"Everyone is celebrating. We should be celebrating too," she tells me as she chugs my drink too.

"Joey isn't celebrating," I say as I turn to look him up, he's involved in some heavy making out with his 'target'. "Okay, he's definitely celebrating something."

"See, let's get some drinks. Celebrate the happy couple."

I chuckle as she gets out of the booth. "All right. Let's celebrate."

I follow Monica with my eyes until she reaches the bar. She does seem more relaxed than I ever knew her to be, and I do wonder if I am a contributing factor to that … but I shake it off.

It's probably the alcohol.

"Chandler, keep an eye on Monica, would you?"

I snap back and it's Ross, still half paying attention to me.

"Oooh," Carol interjects, "I think she's doing just fine."

I'm confused by her tone so I look around and scan the room.

Monica's still at the bar, but now talking to a guy.

I try to see if she looks interested or it's just my imagination, my insecurities, or life playing cruel tricks on me. When a new song plays in the bar, everyone is whooping and cheering.

Except for Monica, and the blonde guy she's chatting up at the bar.

Immediately, I can't help but think … we did conclude our agreement would stop if either one of us meets someone. Maybe I should have thought this through.

I _should_ be happy for her if she meets someone.

But we're having so much fun and so much excellent sex and now she's meeting … Blonde Bar Guy.

I sigh. Sex with Monica is truly excellent. It was excellent that first time in her bed, excellent last Monday before work, even better on Tuesday. And Wednesday, and Thursday. And it was excellent earlier in the kitchen minutes before we headed to the bar.

I'm left to ruminate in my seat, until Monica comes back with our drinks … and a napkin, with something scribbled on it.

Carol disentangles from Ross to clap at her. "You go, girl!"

"Yeah, that guy gave me his number," she says, waving the napkin at us as she sits down.

"And remind me why you aren't over there hitting that?" Carol says again.

"Carol!" Ross yells.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. The man is handsome and your sister deserves to finally get some."

It feels like a massive kitchen knife in my chest.

It shouldn't be a big deal, it isn't a big deal. And yet …

Monica glances up at me and scrunches up her nose. "I wouldn't ditch you guys on my brother's engagement party."

I feel like I'm suffocating so I get up and head towards the restroom. When I get there, the door is closed, so I lean against the wall and close my eyes.

I don't quite understand what prompted this feeling in my gut, but it's not a good one.

I know, rationally, Monica and I don't owe each other anything, we made a deal―the exclusivity part is a temporary one.

As I try to calm myself down, I realize that she did turn down the guy.

My shoulders drop. Turns out, sleeping with your best friend is not so uncomplicated and fun.

Just as I'm about to get back to the table, Monica emerges in the alleyway and pauses when she sees me.

"There you are."

"Hey," I say, walking up to her. Before she responds, I grab her hand, pulling her toward one of the side exit doors.

"Chandler, what are you―"

I push her up against the brick wall and kiss her. Hard. She responds immediately, her hands sliding to my back, nails digging through the fabric of my shirt.

I bite her lip slightly and she moans against my mouth. When she pulls back, she gives me an inquiring glance. "Did you plan this?"

"Maybe," I answer, still nibbling at her throat and kissing every part of her skin I can reach.

"You're full of surprises, Chandler Bing."

I can't help but smile. I look up and check the alleyway. It's too public for what I want to do to her and what I want her to do to me.

We settle on kissing for a few minutes. "Let's go back inside," I tell her.

She makes a pouty face and her hands come around to cup my face. "Unless we get out of here?" she asks tentatively with a glint in her eyes.

"What about Ross and Carol?"

"They just got engaged. I don't think they care about anyone other than themselves."

"Joey?"

"You think you'll see him before tomorrow?"

"Good point."

She resumes kissing me, making sure to tilt her hips and grind herself against me and I'm very close to losing all control or decency.

"Let's get a cab," I whisper to her ear.

She smiles smugly, satisfied with my request. I take her hand again as we move toward the main street.

"Have you ever fooled around in the back of a cab?" I ask her.

"No."

"Me neither. Let's fix that."

* * *

I don't know what it says about me that when Monica asks me if I want to go with her, Ross, and Carol to spend the weekend at her parents' house in Long Island, I jump at the chance.

And I know full well that we won't be fooling around and that her parents aren't the biggest fans of me and that my previous trips at the Gellers are memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Monica said she needed emotional support, a _friend,_ or a buffer but I wasn't hard to convince.

I enjoy Joey's company in my free time, but I'm finding out that I look forward to spending time with Monica any chance I get.

We are used to spending time together as friends/roommates: casual trips to the grocery store, going to the movies, grabbing a bite or a beer … but that's our life bubble, and her childhood home in Long Island is outside that bubble.

This trip feels more … deliberate.

I have to remind myself of the sex drawer, friendship drawer rule … and not think too much about the implications when the two drawers merge.

Ross and Carol seem completely oblivious to our sexy-times under their nose, probably due to their pre-marital bliss, while Joey is … Joey, I am worried about this being the first time we're in close quarters with someone else.

Not so worried about Jack, her father, who's sort of goofy and scatterbrained, but I am terrified of Judy Geller.

The way Monica talks about her, she strikes me as the kind of parent who … knows things.

So I avoid her as much as possible from the moment we get there. I leave Monica and her mother chopping vegetables in the kitchen and I join Jack in the garden manning the barbecue.

I offer my help which he accepts while turning on the radio broadcasting a football game.

"So. Chandler."

I jerk my head toward him, I didn't exactly expect him to strike up a conversation. I was hoping we could quietly listen to the game on the radio.

"I hear you got a nice paying job straight out of college."

I shrug. "Well, it's a job."

He laughs. "You make it sound terrible."

"It's not terrible, but also not nice."

"Let me tell you a secret. When I started dating Judy I was unemployed, but I told her father I was a lawyer."

My eyes go wide for a second. "Yeah … I don't think my job is that impressive anyway."

Jack goes to turn the volume down on the radio then turns to me. "But here's one thing, that old filthy habit of yours of smoking marijuana … you need to let go of that."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Come on, son. College, marijuana. Ross told us."

I cackle nervously. "Um, no, that was Ross. I'm fine with just regular cigarettes, Mr. Geller," I pause for a moment. "I shouldn't have told you that."

Jack takes a moment to think. "You know what, I knew he was lying but his mother wanted to believe him so I went with it."

"Mrs. Geller thinks I smoke marijuana?"

"It's okay, Chandler. She didn't like you very much anyway."

"Oh, I feel better now."

Jack shrugs, then he looks over the window at the kitchen. "How's she doing?" he asks.

"Who, Monica?"

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Who else?"

"Well, why ask me?" I say, dropping my head to focus on the steaks.

"Maybe because you two have been living together for months? You must be very close by now," he says, shooting a speculative glance at me.

I can feel my hands shake a little. I take a deep breath … let's stay calm, there's no mention of the sex.

No mention of the excellent, amazing, mindblowing sex.

_Bing, not the time or space to think about sex with the man's daughter._

"She's good," I say.

He nods unconvincingly. "You know, Chandler, I am very protective of Monica. Judy worries about Ross, but I don't really. Now he's engaged and he works at the Museum … I don't worry about Ross, frankly I never did." He turns to face the window, his eyes on his daughter. "I worry about my little Harmonica."

I chuckle lightly at the nickname, then match his seriousness.

I got it all wrong. Maybe there's more to Jack Geller than the goofy dad. I glance over with him. "Yeah?"

"Single girl in the city … Now her brother is getting married. I don't like thinking my little girl is on her own out there. I know she's a tough cookie, but I worry."

I stay silent. I want to tell him she isn't on her own, that I am here for her, and I may be limited in many ways, but I would never let anyone harm her.

"She will meet someone one day," he continues, thoughtful, "but I want her to have someone who's _there_ for her."

I swallow and glance at him. "She has me," I say quietly.

Jack looks over me and smiles. "I know that, son. You're a nice young man, but I am her father. One day, you'll meet your true love too, and things change."

My brain rebels instantly against the idea. "They won't."

"They have to," he responds gently. "And it's okay. Enjoy being a bachelor, it's a great time, but you'll fall in love someday, and that person won't be okay with Monica being your number one girl. And it is the same for the man Monica is going to marry. That's how life works."

I open my mouth to protest, but I shut it.

I can't imagine right now anyone else replacing Monica as my number one girl. But then he is right. A girlfriend or a wife or whatever wouldn't be okay with that.

He takes a sip out of his beer, then laughs. "I'm sorry Chandler, it's a dad thing. I know you're a great friend to both Ross and Monica, Ross has Carol but you can't forever be there for her."

"I guess."

I understand him but it doesn't mean I like what I'm hearing. Yes, Ross is getting married and we won't see him as much, maybe … He'll have a family one day, but I liked the idea of me and Monica, and even Joey and our weird little friend group just living in the moment and not having to worry about … stuff.

Maybe I don't get it, because I don't have a father and a mother in Long Island worrying about me living single in the city.

"Monica's been dreaming about getting married and having children since she was a little girl," Jack smiles as he reminisces. "She changed her little doll's diapers when she was four!" He then looks at me, seriously. "She won't be fully happy until she gets that dream, I know that."

Is she not happy right now?

Does she need marriage and kids?

Am I a distraction, a temporary frivolous thing until something― _someone_ better shows up?

I can't say I blame her, I wasn't ready to be Janice's boyfriend a few weeks ago, I won't be ready to be a husband and father anytime soon.

If I'll ever be. Bings don't do marriage and kids―not well, anyway.

I pick up my beer, tilting it back as I wait for my thoughts to sort themselves out into something that makes sense.

"Steaks are ready!" Jack announces, opening the window.

I mentally shake myself and force a smile.

I'm _good_ , Monica and I are _good_.

Except I'm not. The idea of one of us being with someone else … The idea of her being married to someone else is embedded in my thoughts.

And I don't like it at all.

* * *

After the barbecue talk, we went back inside and had dinner together. Monica seemed relieved that her parents' attention was all on Ross and Carol and their wedding plans.

The meal went well but I couldn't chase the previous thoughts in my head. The Gellers went to bed. Ross and Carol followed them, and we stayed, taking care of the dishes.

"Hey, Heathcliff," Monica says to me just as we finish the dishes.

I blink and frown. "Heathcliff?"

"Yeah, you're … pensive. What's going on with you?"

"Pensive. Like brooding and sexy?" I attempt to joke.

She nudges her elbow playfully with mine. "Right."

"How about a walk?" she asks after a pause.

"Now? It's dark."

She raises her eyebrows at me. "So? Are you scared?"

I nod. "Yes, absolutely."

"Don't worry, when I was trying to lose weight, I'd go on runs around in the neighborhood at night. It's boring suburbia, Chandler. It will give us a chance to be alone."

A few minutes later, she's wearing my NYU big college sweatshirt so I'm grateful that I brought a warm jacket with me.

We walk down the main street, it's quiet and pretty and boring and it reminds me that it must have been nice growing up in a neighborhood like that.

I breathe deeply the chill air of the night, finally able to relax a little.

We walk in silence for several moments before she speaks. "So what did you and my dad talk about that got you all … sexy and brooding?"

I smile at that. "Ross told him I smoked marijuana in college."

"What?"

"Yeah, he smoked weed once in our dorm room and your parents came to visit. Blamed it on me apparently."

"I'm going to kill him."

"Well, your dad believes me now. Any chance your mother would believe me over Ross?"

"No, no chance in hell."

We laugh together.

Following that, I keep quiet, debating whether I need to tell her about the rest of our conversation, and how much of it she needs to know.

"He worries about you, your dad," I say finally.

She whips her head to me then sighs. "They always think I'm messing up my life. And now Ross is engaged, so I'm an even bigger failure―"

"You're not a failure, and he doesn't think so," I interrupt her, to which she smiles.

"He worries that you're alone now with Ross getting married and all."

"He said that?"

I shrug. "Little girl in the big city, something like that," I say as I shove my hands into my pockets.

"Well, that's ridiculous. I'm not alone. Ross and Carol aren't moving across the world, and I have you. And weirdly, Joey too."

"I just don't want our friendship to change," I say and I realize there's no playfulness to my words at all.

She skips ahead of me and holds up her hand against my chest so I have to stop. "What did he tell you? Where is this coming from?"

I've gotten to know what Monica is thinking just from the look on her face these past few months, and she isn't happy with me right now.

I look away from her. "I don't know if we can forever be like this. Carefree and having secret sex and inviting each other to our family homes …"

"Maybe we can," she says stubbornly.

"Can we? What if one of us meets someone? What happens when you meet someone, huh? Not just a random guy in a bar, but like … _someone_ and … and you'll want to marry him and have children with him―"

"Woah," she interrupts me this time. "Chandler, you're unraveling."

We stay silent for a moment, a few inches separating us.

"Have you met someone?" she asks. "Did you run into Janice again?"

"What? No! I haven't met or ran into anyone," I say, a hand going over my hair. "But it's a possibility, right? Let's be honest with each other here, Monica. It's a very real possibility."

And for the first time tonight, she's the one looking away from me.

"Wow, I never thought you'd be the realist, reasonable one in our friendship."

Her smile is a little sad, and my laugh is anxious.

She takes a few steps then looks at me again with hopeful eyes. "Can we maybe just not think about the future? I'm happy, Chandler. For the first time in my life, I'm really happy to be living in the moment, you know? Does it make sense?"

"Yes, it does. You're right, I'm sorry for freaking out. Your dad … I never thought he'd get into my head like that."

She laughs finally and I'm relieved. "You've just been Geller'd."

We start walking again, the tension starts to fade, and I think maybe we're back to normal.

To where we agreed we should be.

But then, her hand reaches mine, her fingers tentatively brush my fingers.

I hold her hand, and I'd like to think I'm holding my best friend's hand.

It's uncertain and sweet.

A little desperate too.

We walk back home and I wonder if I didn't just plant a dangerous seed, a fear we're both too scared to name.


End file.
